


Haunting of Marsten House

by earthkidsareweird



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - Haunted House, Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, Gay Stanley Uris, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Inspired by The Haunting of Hill House, Locked In, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nobody stopped me so I wrote this, Richie Tozier Has Issues, Richie Tozier Loves Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Has Powers, Stanley Uris-centric, Weirdness, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 35,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27361801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthkidsareweird/pseuds/earthkidsareweird
Summary: Dear Mr. Stanley Uris,You are cordially invited to partake in an experiment to better identify psychic forces at work in our world. We are very excited to meet and to get to know you over the next few days. Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research. You will be reporting to me, Professor Mike Hanlon.We are looking forward to having you on our team.Best Regards,Mike HanlonAssociate ProfessorInterim ChairDepartment of ParapsychologyUniversity of Maine at Derry
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Dreamers Often Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan remembers three weird dreams as he gets an even weirder phone call.

#### I.

Stanley Uris couldn’t remember the last time he dreamt a dream. Most nights he fell into a void as if he were lost and floating through space. The nothing greeted Stan whenever he closed his eyes and reached the REM cycle.

Anyhow, this story begins in a set of three and maybe it’ll end in a set of three, as well. It’s hard to tell in the time and place in between dream and reality. That’s where Stan sat realizing, he not only dreamt a dream but he dreamt three remembering the details of them yet unsure to why he even woke up in the first place. His pet bird didn’t sing. The sun wasn’t up. Something was happening that he couldn’t quite figure out.

A phone rang. The landline phone, in fact, rang. He sat up realizing he hadn’t heard a phone in years and would’ve canceled it if everything weren’t such a ‘packaged deal.’ He sat in bed staring straight across the room knowing underneath him waited the phone as it rang and rang and rang again. He peeled his cell phone off his nightstand to see it was after 3:30 in the morning. Nobody in their right mind would call yet he got up.

As if shoving his way through some riptide chaos, he made his way up and out of the room, through the door and downstairs only to travel straight back into the memory of the first dream.

#### II.

Stan never liked candied figs but as soon as he tasted them in the air, he knew he lived in a dream. How? Sometimes intuition was stronger than the scientific method. He opened his eyes to find autumn creeping into the leavers earlier than usual. It caused the leaves to look all blood-stained. He hugged a book about birds while standing above the world on top of factory ruins.

A life in Georgia stole him away from the steel cities up north. There ancient manufacturers were broken down, sinking into the ground, where girls burned alive while making clothes all day long. Moving to Georgia brought him, a Coca-Cola factory, a large airport, and a center dedicated to disease control.

A raven sputtered free from the tree letting blood leaves drip across the ground before him. It landed close to his feet to look up right at him. Somehow Stan knew to open up a book in hand, he flipped straight through a bunch of pages choosing the correct one.

> **Corvus Corax _(Raven)_** : A symbol of misfortune and failures when seen in dreams, but they’re not always a bad omen. It depends on how you relate to your current situation. Either way, a raven depicts the dark side of your life.

“Wait. What?” Stan snapped it shut to double-check the title: _The National Audubon Society Field Guide of North American Birds_. Weird because most bird watching guides didn’t depict the meanings of dreams. He stared at the cover a little longer, this wasn’t even his book. It’d been one he had once upon a time back when he lived. . .up north. Stan ran his fingertips across A-U-D-U-B-O-N before whispering to himself, “Wait, no. I’m in the dream.”

The raven yelled, snapping him up off the book’s cover to realize, he wasn’t alone with one bird anymore. Instead, a few more joined. Five ravens hung out in front of him turning them into a group of six. He titled his head to the side with some spare curls falling into his line of vision.

“Why am I dreaming of birds?”

The first raven stared at him answering, “Because a raven depicts the dark side of your life.”

“Jeez, how clear do we got to make it?” A different raven spoke up and to make it worse, Stan was pretty sure the raven even laughed. Birds shouldn’t laugh. It was. . .

#### III.

“. . .Hello?” 

Stan made it to the phone but whoever called gave up on him by then. He groaned leaning his forehead into the wall. It took him a hot second to remember how caller ID worked on land phones. Whoever it was called him twice already. It just said: **Unknown Caller**.

His movement stirred his parakeet who started to chirp. 

Stan smiled even though the bird couldn’t see him. “It’s not time to eat yet, Zissou.”

The phone rang all over again. Third time for the night and it wasn’t even close to ten yet. He leaned forward seeing it once again warned him **Unknown Caller** , but he picked it up managing to whisper, “. . .Um. . .Hello. . .?”

“Is this Stanley Uris?”

Some reason Stan scanned his home as if somebody would stand around to let him know for a fact, _Yes, you are Stanley Uris_.

“Who is this?” replied Stan instead.

#### IV.

“Separate them into three piles.”

The collision of bowling pins was more scary than the abrupt words. Stan didn’t know why he fell back into his dream from three hours ago. Again, he sat in some bowling alley across from a woman with a stack of tarot cards in hand. All of which she pushed toward him. Stan wiped his fingers off across a paper towel and pushed some french fries out of the way. Overheard music played over stereo speakers, but music was a weird way to put it. 

Instead, the old _Pure Moods_ commercial played.

**Imagine a world where time drifts slowly, a world where music carries you away. . .**

_Sail away, sail away, sail away. . ._

Stan began to shuffle the tarot cards while he watched the woman, somehow he knew her face without her having a face. She was ______, of course. And ______ waited for him to stop shuffling. As he slowed down, she told him, “You’ll have past, present, and future. Please keep your question in mind.”

“My question?” whispered Stan. He knew nothing about. . .this and yet he needed answers about a shadow self. He split the deck into three, making sure each one was thrice shuffled.

**Experience Pure Moods, the perfect soundtrack for your way of life.**

_Adie adie mus ta de adie adie a mus ta, adie na ta mus ta me adua._

______ took the past and spread it out before Stan. He chose a piece of his past before ______ laid out the present for him. Again, he chose and like the two times before, ______ spread the future out before Stan and he chose another card.

______ smiled. “Remember this is not _fortune telling_ , but instead, I am here to mediate whatever argument you have in your mind.”

Stan nodded.

“You take what is right for you and you leave what doesn’t help behind.

Stan nodded.

**Direct from Europe, this multi-platinum collection has one the hearts of millions. Set adrift with the timeless pleasures of tubular bells or take a trip into the unknown with the _X-Files theme_.**

Each of the cards features an illustrated crow sitting on a sun with pale galaxies looking like a crown. ______ flipped over the first and looked at it before looking up at Stan. A crack of bowling pins exploded through the area.

“Three of cups, upright.” ______ paused for some dramatic effect but Stan needed her to hurry up. Dreams rarely lasted long. “For friendship, celebration, collaborations. You have friends and family--although friends can be found family--who support you and mean to lift you up to higher levels of success. This card is here to remind you of those wonderful shared connections. I’d go as far to suggest you should gather your closest friends to remember good times because there is a chance either you’ve taken it for granted or have forgotten it.”

Stan didn’t want to admit out loud that he had no friends.

______ flipped over the next card. “Death, reversed.” Again with the pause except this time, there was drama in the silence. Stan stared at her rather than the card. “It’s not what it looks like. This card is here for change and transformation, which is never easy. It can be about the end of things, but it can also be about the dangers of refusing to change. I don’t know what is going on in your life, what you are resisting or what you’re feeling reluctant to do or let go, but that resistance can be dangerous. Learn to embrace change.”

Time for the future. ______ flipped it over revealing the final input. “Nine of wands, upright. Here we see an injured man or in this case, an injured crow with a broken wing who is looking over his shoulder, in fear. This crow, he’s weary and worn, he’s already been through a battle and must face additional challenges.” ______ examined Stan for a minute as he stared right at the card. “You must be exhausted, at the edge of exhausted for whatever is happening in your life. But please _remember_ , you are resilient, persistent, and you have what it takes to get to that finish line.”

Stan interrupted for the first time. “I do?”

______ touched the side of his face. “Yes, Stan, you do. You have what it takes, even if you want to give up your final challenge or think you need to give up your final challenge. Don’t. Stand firm in the face of those challenges. It’ll be difficult. But you can do it.”

“You sure.”

______ nodded before adding, “Don’t let them get to you. You need to wake up.”

“Wait, what?”

“Stan, you need to wake up.”

#### V.

“Sorry for calling at such a strange hour,” the unknown caller continued to talk. “I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Mike Hanlon.”

Stan attempted to remember where and why he knew the name. Mike. Mike Hanlon. Mike Hanlon? 

“We spoke a while back about my investigation of supernatural events. I am looking to test my hypothesis in a small town located in Maine. Rumor has it that a lot of impossible events happen in and around town especially within a single household, which recently went up on the market. The deed was in an individual’s name who recently passed leaving it to two caretakers who agreed to let us stay. This is all moving rather fast and I apologize for the short notice, but I was hoping to invite you to participate in the experiment.”

Mike’s words were almost too fast, a lot of them went right past his understanding. Stan continued to hang tight to the phone still not remembering the conversation the two apparently shared once.

“I can’t pay for your flight there, but after arriving, I can provide you with a stipend to cover traveling cots.”

“To Maine?” Stan didn’t know why he sounded like that. A tremor caused his voice to quake, hand, too. He didn’t know a lot about Maine. It was one of those states that he always forgot existed. “I’m sorry, who did you say again?”

“Mike Hanlon, we spoke on Zoom before in March.”

“Oh, right.” Stan ended up in the kitchen with his phone to pull a notepad off the fridge. The top page was of groceries he wrote down about then forgot to pick any of them up. Fast food instead called for his attention that night. “I remember.”

“I understand you live in Atlanta, but if there is a chance you could arrive in Jerusalem’s Lot in the next two days, that would be fantastic. You wouldn’t need to worry about food or shelter, all of that would be provided for we will be staying together in order to conduct the. . .”

“Ok,” replied Stan.

“I’m sorry, what?” Mike said.

“I said, ok.” Dream him was told not to resist change so why not in real life him.

“Then I’ll email you important information tomorrow.”

#### VI.

In the third dream, Stan could float.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been on my mind for a while and it's been a while since I've returned to It, which really has helped me through a lot. So I'm dusting off this weird draft I have and working on it. Apologize if any weird changes happen, but it's a weird spooky locked room murder mystery. ALSO! All of this is gonna be weird (hopefully) but like very weird just because.
> 
> If you like this, pls let me know or forever hold your peace. And I promise it'll be a little less weird soon.


	2. Jerusalem’s Lot, Maine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan arrives in Jerusalem's Lot for a parapsychology.
> 
> During a mishap at a local diner, he meets Richie Tozier but he doesn't know this yet.

#### I.

Dear Mr. Stanley Uris,

You are cordially invited to partake in an experiment to better identify psychic forces at work in our world. We are very excited to meet and to get to know you over the next few days. Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research. You will be reporting to me, Professor Mike Hanlon.

Your expected starting date is September 1 and no later. Upon arrival, you will be asked to sign a contract before starting the experiment. While we understand this is such short notice, please let us know as soon as possible if you are unable to participate.

In the meantime, please feel free to reach out and contact me with any questions by email or phone. Otherwise, directions to Jerusalem’s Lot, Maine and the location of the experiment are attached to this email.

We are looking forward to having you on our team.

Best Regards,

Mike Hanlon  
Associate Professor  
Interim Chair  
Department of Parapsychology  
University of Maine at Derry

#### II.

_Excerpt from Provided Directions:_

> Upon arrival to Jerusalem’s Lot, Maine you will find locals often refer to it as **’Salem’s Lot**. Please keep this in mind as you travel through because visitors are often not appreciated. Try not to stop in town and do not mention where you are headed. We will be conducting our experiments at the Marsten House, which sits on a hill above Jerusalem’s Lot making it an easy find.
> 
> Present this email to Mrs. Kersh upon arrival, either her or the groundskeeper will let you in.

#### III.

Stan looked up from the email, he printed it out, took screenshots on his phone, and yet failed to follow through with the whole “Try not to stop in town.” He sat in the middle of town at a little diner. The waiter passed him a third time shooting him a look. The sort that could be trademarked because it only belonged to her. He looked down unsure what to do next, the waiter carried a coffee pot at all times. Others drank it. Not him. He was a tea person and yet flipped a mug over on the table and waved her down.

“Um. . .coffee. . .please. . .” 

The waiter started to pour it while she continued to glare.

“So what kind of coffee is this?” Stan attempted a smile.

She stopped pouring it now the mug was full. “What are you talking about?”

“Like is it. . .black coffee or. . .?”

“It’s coffee,” she snapped and left.

Stan leaned back into the booth seat. It groaned under his weight causing a stir throughout the diner. Even with banging pans and dishes, he found himself as the center of attention. About three other people were there and each one looked right at him, pausing from eating or drinking coffee. Instead, Stan looked down at the placemat diners all seemed to collect. Local businesses telling him where to go.

_Barlow’s Antiques_

A plate crashed in front of him, some grease splattered over the placemat and Stan looked up at his food. He ordered waffles with “seasonal” fruit but instead he found pancakes and bacon sitting in front of me.

“This isn’t. . .” Stan started to say.

“No more waffles.”

“. . .But can I have it with fruit?”

The waiter kept up with the glaring. 

“. . .Nevermind. . .?” There was no reason to why he said it as a question and worse, no reason to why he didn’t continue to fight his own battle for seasonal fruit.

_Try not to stop in town._

Whatever the waiter was about to say was interrupted by somebody else in the diner. Stan couldn’t remember if they’d always been there or just arrived. Either way they scooted into the booth across from the waiter pulling the pancake plate closer.

“Jeez. . .Sylvester, I can’t believe you memorized my order.” The stranger took a bite out of the bacon looking at the waiter. He offered up the best smile he could manage. The sort you’d think could almost look because there was something precious about it, but he looked pretty full of mischief as if he ran too long with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. He fixed his Hollywood nerd glasses to get a better look at the waiter. “Hester, get my man some fruit and pancakes, he’s unfortunately allergic to all kinds of meat and I mean all kinds of meat.”

“People aren’t allergic to meat,” retorted the waiter.

“Shut up! People are! Like _Sylvester_ here, he got bit by one of those mosquitos. . .”

“Lone star tick,” Stan corrected. Well, somehow that came outright. There wasn’t a question mark insight at the end.

The waiter rolled her eyes and left them to themselves and the guy continued eating Stan’s food. After pouring a lot of syrup on the pancakes and bacon, he paused leaning across the table a bit. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he whispered as if the two were conspiring.

Stan teetered forward, more by accident because the person in front of him leaned toward the table. He would’ve preferred to keep a very large personal bubble. “Yeah, pretty obvious, huh?”

The guy leaned back in the boot. “No idea, not from around here either. Thanks for breakfast though.” He hopped up out of his seat after barely touching any of the rest of the food.

“Hey wait!” Stan started to protest.

“Ooooh sorry, I’ve got places to go and places to be.”

“I mean, don’t we all?” replied Stan.

The guy shrugged.

“It’s. . .Stan. . .by the way.”

The guy nodded. “Better than Sylvester.” He waved again with that stupid smirk of his before exiting. He yelled back a “Bye Hester” and she responded with, “That’s not my name.” 

But at least Not-Hester the Waiter brought over a bowl of fruit. She dropped it right in front of Stan who was about to say thank you but some car revving up in the parking lot got them to both stop and look. The other two people in the diner did so, too. Whoever that was drove away fast in a red car.

“None of you should be here,” Not-Hester commented before returning to the kitchen.

_Please keep this in mind as you travel through because visitors are often not appreciated._

#### IV.

Wasn’t long before Stan was back to eating his fruit and pancakes then he sat there waiting and waiting realizing, time was ticking away and he had to get going. Not-Hester didn’t pass for a while. The last time she did, she smelled of nicotine and fried food. Stan sighed, grabbing some of his stuff, and made his way to the front counter ringing a little bell. It stirred Not-Hester from the back.

“Great. What now?” she rolled her eyes.

“Oh. Um. Can I get my check?”

Not-Hester tilted her head to the side a bit. “Your friend got it so you can get out.”

“Wait? I’m sorry? What?” Stan watched Not-Hester’s eyes almost roll out of her head. The drama of it was a bit much. It was salt rubbed into the inhospitable wound of Jerusalem's Lot. “He did?”

Not-Hester nodded.

Stan still opened his wallet leaving her a tip. Even though she’d been rude all along, he couldn’t leave any less than a 20% tip. Not-Hester stood there holding the money looking all confused until Stan told her, “For you.”

“What? You rich or something?”

Stan shook his head. “No, just. I don’t know. It’s a tip.”

And she actually smiled, pocketing the money. Stan went to wave but she signaled for him to come closer. The closer he got a strong whiff of nicotine. “Sylvester, ain’t it.”

“. . .Yeah. . .”

“I don’t know why you’re here, what brought you here, but whatever it is, it’s not worth it. You get the hell out of ‘Salem’s Lot while you still can.”

Stan gawked at her. “Oh? What happens. . .if I stay?”

Not-Hester pulled out some cigarettes, she looked ready to go on a smoking break. But she just shrugged in response before adding a short, “You don’t wanna know so get out.”


	3. The Marsten House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan attempts to settle in at a super creepy house.
> 
> Enter Eddie Kaspbrak.
> 
> Then also enter Bev Marsh.

#### I.

There were many reasons to why Stan should have made a u-turn.

  1. The Marsten House stood on top of a hill overlooking the small town of Jerusalem's Lot.
  2. No good could come from a house sitting on a hill. This had already been told by Shirley Jackson.
  3. The icy greeting of people in town was not a good sign.
  4. There really was no reason to participate in the experiment.



#### II.

Trees bowed into the road. The tips of their branches scraped across the pavement almost striking Stan’s car, but he kept on driving up, up, up toward the Marsten House. It's a Victorian home sitting on the hill. The sort with a turret as if it wanted to be a castle. The turret raised above the other levels. In fact, there were two. One on each side of the house, both stabbed the sky. And the closer Stan came to the house the more he realized he couldn’t tell how many floors were inside the single building. There had to at least be two, if not more. 

Only one window was boarded up. It was the highest window of one of the turrets while the rest of the windows appeared to be fine. Each one reflected sunlight at him forcing him to squint. He arrived at a wrought iron gate. Its metal twisted into sharp horses, which came to no comfort at all. Four metal horses stared at him. There were four horses of the apocalypse according to some, but none who Stan could name other than _pestilence_ because it was a good word choice.

Stan put the car in park and climbed out after he waited five whole minutes. Nobody arrived to let him in. He walked up to the horses and stared through their eyes at the house. Dead grass prickled the landscape with looming sunflowers judging him.

“HELLO?” 

Nobody appeared to answer.

“HELLO?” But Stan needed to pull out his phone to check who he needed to see first. Mrs. Kersh or the groundskeeper but upon a second look, it looked like the place could use a groundskeeper so he felt little to no hope. “MRS. KERSH?!”

Mrs. Kersh flung herself into the wrought iron gate. It rattled with flakes of black paint falling from it. She gripped the bars. It didn’t appear there was any place for her to hide and leap out from. She held tight with her knuckles growing white.

“You should keep your voice down,” she snapped at him, but at a whisper making the words worse.

Stan pulled up the invitation showing it to her. Mrs. Kersh though snatched his phone away from him. She stayed on the other side reading through it clucking the whole while. When she looked up, she pushed the gate open to let Stan inside. He stood there at such a loss for words. What he really needed to ask was _Where should I park?_ but instead he stood there mouthing gibberish.

“I want you to understand, I serve breakfast at nine o’clock then I serve lunch at twelve o’clock, and I will set food out for dinner to be prepared by you all because I leave before dark. Understood?”

“Um, yes?” Stan peered around for help but it was just him and her and the open gate.

Mrs. Kersh eyed his vehicle. “The groundskeeper will park it.”

“That’s ok, I really can. . .”

“ _The groundskeeper will park it_.” For the first time, Mrs. Kersh’s voice rose a bit above a whisper. She squinted at Stan. “It is his duty to keep this space looking its best.” But it simply did not. “He will also leave before dark.”

“Can I ask why?”

The question was wasted as Mrs. Kersh headed toward the Marsten House. She pulled out a single skeleton key, which fit the house. The sunflowers continued to judge them. Stan watched them, he could’ve sworn their heads moved to watch them rather than witnessing the sun’s movement across the sky. 

Mrs. Kersh unlocked the door and let him inside. Stan stepped into the first room. Dust filtered in through a hole in the ceiling. A few vines grappled with the edges attempting to come down inside. A massive staircase took up most of the space. All the artwork hanging on walls were covered in dingy sheets. A crimson carpet ran up the steps before it split into two. Probably headed towards one turret then toward the other.

While Stan stood in the doorway gawking at everything, Mrs. Kersh started clicking her tongue at him. He returned her attention to her. “On the second floor you will find the rooms, you are welcome to choose any one of them. If you have luggage in your vehicle then it will be brought to the room later. And please remember I serve breakfast at nine o’clock then I serve lunch at twelve o’clock, and I will set food out for dinner to be prepared by you all because I leave before dark. Understood?”

“But how will the groundskeeper know which is the right room?” 

“He will.”

Even though Stan continued to stand in the threshold, Mrs. Kersh shoved the door shut. It almost struck his nose but he moved out of the way before it could. Natural light was left behind to guide him. Not from any windows but the hole in the ceiling above him.

#### III.

_You are cordially invited to partake in an experiment to better identify psychic forces at work in our world. We are very excited to meet and to get to know you over the next few days. Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research. You will be reporting to me, Professor Mike Hanlon._

But Stan couldn’t recall a paranormal incident of his past nor could he recall ever applying to the study. There wasn’t the faintest hint to how he came into contact with this Professor Mike Hanlon. He laid his phone down beside him while he rested on a bed. It was premade and he didn’t mess with the blankets or the pillows. Instead, he laid there staring at a tapestry of black and silver thread depicting birds flying through either leaves or water.

None of the birds in the tapestry appeared to be particular birds. Whoever created it simply made bird-like shapes and probably called it a day. Maybe because tapestries are hard to make. It shimmered in the daylight. The sun cut straight through the window hitting it.

There was a soft knock on the door frame and Stan sat up to find he wasn’t alone anymore. Somebody else looked to have arrived because they stood there with a lot of luggage and none of the luggage belonged to Stan. Whoever this person was, they brought a large suitcase that was half their size with a muted floral print, the type that summoned grandmothers. They also had a duffle bag slung over their shoulder that looked more reminiscent of backpacking.

“Hi.”

Stan continued to sit on the bed. “Hi, I’m Stan.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Oh, um, Stanley Uris.”

“I can choose any of these rooms?” If Eddie had a free hand, he looked like he was ready to signal to all the rooms in the hallway.

“Correct. I chose this one because of the art, but they all pretty much look the same.”

Eddie looked both ways in the hallway. “And none of them have a bathroom?”

“No, but it does look like there's one to share down the hall.”

Eddie muttered some expletives under his breath and headed that way. Smart thinking, a room right by the bathroom. And Stan laid back down to admire the black and silver tapestry before him. The birds of course still shimmered for it remained bright outside.

#### IV.

With another soft knock on the doorframe, Eddie announced his return. He stood there with greater ease than earlier. All the weight was off his shoulders. Again Stan sat up. The two stared at one another without comment. There were no other sounds in the house. Strange for such an old home. Most old homes never shut up.

“I was thinking about walking around for a bit,” Eddie started, “if you wanted to join. I don’t think we’re getting food anytime soon if Mrs. Marsh is to be believed.”

“Kersh,” Stan corrected.

“Right.”

Eddie and Stan went back to staring at one another. At least, Stan scooted off the bed to walk over to him. “Looking around sounds like a nice idea. I’d like to catch a few final sunrays and figure out where my car is parked.”

“I meant walk around the house.”

Stan shrugged. “Seems inappropriate without Professor Hanlon.”

“Good point. Then outside it is.”

#### V.

The sunflowers judged Stan while he stood near a rocky edge. The hill looked rather unsafe like it wanted to be wilderness rather than a home. It spilled over into the town below where lights began to pop on in homes and establishments. The sun was going to set soon. Eddie came over to stand beside him looking down all of once before he backed up.

“I think I’m going to head back,” Eddie commented.

“Do you know Professor Hanlon?” Stan looked up at him. He asked the question by accident but meant to do so earlier.

“Not personally, only spoke to him over the phone and email.”

“Same.” Stan moved with Eddie back toward the house. “What was. . .the paranormal incident you experienced to be invited here?”

Eddie’s pace slowed. “When I was a kid, I was walking home one time past this old house and a man tried to get my attention. He kept whispering for me and I felt like I couldn’t get away. That I needed to approach him, but his skin was peeling from his face and the back of his hands.”

“Maybe you just saw a sick person?” Stan studied Eddie.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so. I used to live with my mother and I think there was something wrong with her, she would always pretend I was sick or had allergies and give me pills. It might have something to do with that.”

“With the sick person you saw?”

“No, the invitation here. I don’t know. I can’t really think of a paranormal incident.” Once again, Eddie’s pace picked up. He was shorter than Stan but didn’t need the long legs to get some distance in. 

The two came to a complete stop though spotting another newcomer looking at the house. They stood there staring up, up, up at the one turret with the boarded-up window. Their hair fell in fiery curls all around them as if they arrived from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. They turned spotting Eddie and Stan standing close by.

Eddie waved.

Stan waved, but also said, “Hi, I’m Stan.” He paused and pointed at the person beside him. “This is Eddie.”

The new newcomer grinned. “Hi, I’m Beverly Marsh.”

_Marsh_. Eddie and Stan exchanged a look and Stan was glad their attention to snap at one another. Something about Beverly's last name chilled Stan’s stomach. His insides clenched up. Eddie just said _Mrs. Marsh_ but about Mrs. Kersh. The names weren’t that close to one another and it wasn’t like either or were common.

Bev nervously chuckled. She picked at her pants pocket. “Is something wrong? You two look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”


	4. And Then There Were Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost everybody else arrives to the scene (the scene of a future crime).

#### I.

Dust shouldn’t look like snow and yet it did. Bev stood right before the door with Eddie and Stan outside unable to come in with her blocking the way. She peeled a black glove from her right hand and held her palm up letting the dust touch her skin.

A mistake.

“Are you alright?” Stan asked behind her.

Bev flinched and didn’t mean to yelp. She looked over her shoulder returning the glove to her hand. Stan watched. How odd. He didn’t notice she’d been wearing them earlier. It wasn’t cold enough out for winter gear to grace their presence. Bev faked a smile. But she didn’t fool Stan. She fooled Eddie though (but in his defense, he hadn’t seen many genuine smiles in his lifetime).

“I’m fine, sorry.” She ran a hand through her hair mussing it up. “Mrs. Kersh said to choose a room, could you show me the way?”

“Of course.” 

Stan and Eddie entered as soon as Bev moved to the side. And up the steps they went moving into the hallway full of doors. Each and everyone led into a bedroom, but that was actually an exaggeration. All the doors were brown but a white door at the end of the hall led to the bathroom. Bev began opening one after another. Stan’s door stayed open and she looked inside with him. His luggage was present.

“Who chose this one?”

Stan raised his hand.

Bev looked at the tapestry. “You like birds?”

Stan nodded.

And Bev moved to the next room. “I think they're a little scary.”

“Because they’re little vicious dinosaurs?” Eddie offered.

Bev chuckled. “Maybe.” She picked a room two doors down and across the hallway from Stan. From her doorway she could spot Stan’s room and Eddie’s room, their doors left wide open. Her room hosted no art. It was simply painted off-white with a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and a closet. “I think this one will do.” 

As Bev walked into the room, Eddie and Stan waited on both sides of the doorway. Eddie piped up. “How do you know Professor Hanlon?”

“I don’t,” Bev replied as she looked around at her plain walls as if she were in an art museum. She tossed a look over her shoulder. “He reached out to me probably because of my childhood.”

“Oh?” Eddie said out loud and Stan mouthed the word.

Bev shrugged, Her cheeks glowed red. “My dad thought I could see the past whenever I touched an object.”

“Well, can you?” Stan asked.

Bev only stared at them without an answer. “How do you two know Professor Hanlon?”

“We don’t,” both Eddie and Stan replied in unison.

“That’s not creepy at all,” Bev huffed. She touched the bed, it was made with white blankets to match the walls. “Sounds like a murder mystery.”

“I hope not.” Eddie gulped shaking his head.

Bev sat on the edge of her bed. “So what now? Is it just us?”

“It’s just us.” Stan nodded.

Bev sighed. “I guess that means we wait.”

#### II.

“Hello? HELLO? Anybody here?!”

Stan, Eddie, and Bev made it to the staircase and looked down to see the front door wide open with the setting sun spilling red all over the place. The three watched people enter. There are four people down there. None of whom bring their luggage along.

“I’m Mike Hanlon!” said their leader. He stood in the middle of the front room looking up at the other three. “Sorry for being so late! Had to make a few stops along the way to pick up a few people.”

“No problem,” Bev chimed in. She waved. “I’m Bev.”

“Stanley Uris.” He pointed at the other side of the house. “Mrs. Kersh said there’s food for us, I think she ordered out.”

“Eddie.” 

Mike smiled. “So happy to meet you all.” He signaled to the people coming up behind him. The tallest participant he pointed at. “This is Bill Denbrough and Ben Hanscom and. . .” Mike trailed away turning to find the last person in his company stopped by the door. He was going to take his shoes off before noticing everybody else continued to wear them. “And Eddie Cocoran. Looks like we’ll be needing some nicknames.”

“Ok, but only as long as I get to stay Eddie,” Eddie Kaspbrak said up from on the steps.

The second Eddie shrugged. “We can vote on it later.”

#### III.

Chatter fell downstairs. It moved as if words affected gravity. Stan sat on the bottom step. His muscles and brain already too tired from meeting people. He got a few words in while upstairs with Mike, Ben, Bill, and Eddie C. And already he spoke too long with Bev and Eddie K. Before dinner started, he wanted a quick refresher. A sort of palette cleanser for the introvert.

According to Mike though, more would arrive. They expected a Richie Tozier, a Betty Ripsom, and a Henry Bowers. 

Stan got up to go to the front door. Sitting somewhere else might be better introvert practice. Upstairs conversations happened. Right there people planned to enter. His fingers brushed the doorknob before it was ripped right out from him.

A man opened the door and in a low gravelly voice asked, “Can I help you?”

Stan stared, mainly taking in the fact he held onto a few bags and a suitcase. The groundskeeper? He was clean-shaven with a devilish smile and for a groundskeeper, he was oddly wearing a suit with a tie.

“I was going out for fresh air.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it if I were you. There’s strange things that happen out there after the sun goes down, it’s why I never stay after dark.” He brushed past Stan making him wait a little longer inside before being able to leave.

For somebody who left before dark, he sure was cutting it close to dark. Stan tucked his hands into his pocket. It was getting chilly out and a breeze picked up. He moved through the ruined yard looking at the judgemental sunflowers wilt as the sun left them.

Something out there stank. Stan wrinkled his nose unsure if skunks lived in Maine. He’d never seen a skunk in person. He looked past wilted sunflowers toward a part of the house, it looked as if there were a bench out there with something built into the ground. Maybe a shelter for storms? Maybe one of those old refrigerators where you stuck your food in cold water?

Somebody sat on the bench humming a tune that Stan couldn’t make out. He scanned the area looking for an escape but whoever sat on the bench spotted him and waved. Stan continued his scan as the stranger kept on waving.

“What the fuck, man! I can see you ignoring me!” 

“Ok!” replied Stan. He noticed the gates were closed but they hadn’t yet all arrived. Bright lights lit up in front of the house. Brighter than any should be. They killed the coming shadows. Stan crossed the yard, the dead grass crunched under his feet. “Hi, I’m Stan.”

But Stan tripped on a root to some unknown tree. Maybe it was a long dead tree. He missed it as he stared at the stranger getting a real good look at him. He knew this guy. He was still a stranger but less of a stranger than the rest of them in the house. The guy from breakfast. He sat there offering Stan a blunt.

“Richie Tozier.”

“. . .No thanks. . .” Stan shook his head to make sure Richie understood. He watched him inhale a bunch of smoke. “You’re here for the experiment.”

“That I am.”

From the house, Bev yelled out the front door. “Stan! Dinner time! Hurry up!”

“Speaking of dinner.” Richie leaned forward a little bit. “You owe me breakfast.”

“That’s not fair! I didn’t even ask.”

“Hm, don’t care. I’m gonna hold you to it, Stan. Stan the Man?”

“ _Don’t_.” Stan took a big step backward as the sun kept on with its descent. If it didn’t, they’d have other problems to worry about. “I guess we should go.”

“Hey! But what about everybody else?” Richie asked without getting up.

“Inside.” And again with another big back step for Stan.

“You psychic or something?”

Stan shook his head. “No, I was the first one here. "Are you psychic?"

"Trade secret." Richie smirked. “So then why are you here?”

Stan squinted at Richie who leaned back continuing to smoke. “I don’t think I know.”

“Weird.” Richie popped on up ready to follow Stan inside. He caught up with Stan with three exaggerated large steps. “ _And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re going to fall, Tell ‘em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call._ ”

Each word matched the tune Richie’d been humming when Stan arrived. Somehow Richie took the lead while Stan stood still. All the sunflowers touched the ground. Their faces were buried in the dead, dead grass that crunched as they walked.

Richie kept looking up at the house the whole time muttering maybe to himself or maybe to Stan or maybe to something else entirely, “House is fucking ugly.”


	5. Dinner from Jade of the Orient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served and some brief paranormal stories are shared.

#### I.

Looking back has a lot of dangers. Literature throughout history has always warned about the dangers of looking back from Orpheus trying to save his Eurydice, Aeneas fleeing Troy, Lot’s wife looked back as well (for some she doesn’t have a name and other time she is known as Ado or Edith), and even Kurt Vonnegut warned readers about the dangers of looking back.

As Vonnegut put it: **Unstuck in time**.

Stan looked back, at what, he wasn’t sure. No. He knew, he looked back to make sure Richie Tozier continued to follow him. They left the outdoors to go indoors. Stan already stood underneath the hole in the ceiling above, dust spilled around him making it look more winter than not. He looked over his shoulder yet it was as if several feet separated him from the doorway. 

Stanley Uris somehow became unstuck in time. The floor knocked him off balance and out of time, he looked for Richie but found himself watching as gigantic pieces of hail struck the ground. Not hail, but rocks. Rocks hit the ground and shattered upon impact. It made no sense. He stumbled backward, his heel clipping a crooked floorboard but for a moment he was too afraid the rocks would hit him and he’d die.

“Earth to Stanny?” Richie waved a hand in his face as he pushed him a bit out of the way. 

Not once did Stan move. He was stuck in the threshold and only parted ways with it as Richie made his way indoors.

Richie pointed at the broken ceiling. “Somebody should do something about that.”

And Stan looked up again to see dust filter through. Light danced around it as if again snowflakes continued to fall. He looked back outside to see nothing on the ground there. The door closed, thanks to Richie who followed the voice that drifted from another room. Nobody was upstairs.

“What’s gotten into you?” Richie asked, bringing Stan back to the present all over again.

_Weird_. Simply stating weird though was an understatement. He stood around being too odd because Richie passed him up. No more questions. No more nicknames. What was it he called him a minute or two ago? _Stanny_? That needed to be stopped. Stan followed Richie’s footsteps while he headed up the steps in a half hopping fashion and a half regular walking one. _Weird, weird, weird, weird._

“Glad to see that you’re coming you strange, strange, sad person,” Richie said to him with a smirk and an over-the-shoulder glance.

One more time, Stan looked at the doorway. It was closed, no more rock hail falling from the sky. Talk about apocalyptic. But it was something half-remembered, _half remembered_ , a half-remembered memory to the reason why he arrived at the Marsten house.

_Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research._

#### II.

On level two and a half a dining room waited. There was something not right with it. Butterfly wings decorated the walls. Almost a collage of sorts. The light dust on the wings shimmered in the light. A long table was in the middle underneath a golden chandelier. Its lights were dim, the bulbs needed a change. A glossy finish covered a cherry red wood table with brass art inlaid on the edges.

Mike, Bev, and Ben were careful as they set out Chinese take-out. Mrs. Kersh watched them as she shook her head and kept casting a look at a grandfather clock that waited just outside the room.

“I leave before dark,” Mrs. Kersh reminded them.

Eddie sat at the table. “Yeah, we heard you already.” He looked at her, just in time to see the hideous glare she fired off at him. But he shrugged. “And don’t worry, we also know that breakfast is at nine, you serve lunch at twelve, and you set food out for dinner for _us_ to prepare so you and the groundskeeper can leave before dark.”

“We would be gone by now but not all of your guests appear to be here, Professor Hanlon,” retorted Mrs. Kersh.

There wasn’t a sign of the groundskeeper. Just them as Stan and Richie entered the room. With their voices being loud enough to collect, Richie announced as he came into the dining room, “Party can start now that I’ve walked in.”

Everybody looked up at the two of them. Richie paused pretty close to the entrance to admire a little bar in a glass case. Expensive alcohol waited inside it. The sort that collected dust because everybody said it was for a special occasion but no matter how special the occasion was, they didn’t dare to drink any of it.

“You don’t want to do that,” growled Mrs. Kersh from her perch in the side of the room. Her words stopped Richie from opening the glass cabinet all the way. “You have no idea how long that’s been there.”

Richie still held onto the little knob on the cabinet while he stared at her. “Well, do you know?”

“I don’t either.”

Mike raised a hand, which felt like the opposite of what a professor should do. And yet everybody quiets down. Richie took a step from the alcohol cabinet opening his mouth to say something though as he fixed his glasses. Somehow Stan caught his elbow getting Richie to look at him and stop talking before he started to talk. This was the sort of person who’d never shut up once he had the chance. That part was clear and they knew each other for all of fifteen to twenty minutes.

“I wrote out by each carton what is what so no surprises. We have red dragon wanton, silken tofu in chili oil, lamb dry pot, shredded pork with garlic sauce, poached pork in hot chili, dan dan noodle, mapo tofu, stir-fried string beans, bok choy stir-fried with sliced garlic, sliced beef in sour soup, xiao long bao, pork kidney with spicy hot sauce, sliced pig ear with chili sauce. . .” Mike paused to take a deep breath because that is a lot. “Hope you all like spicy food.”

Richie and Stan went to take a seat at the long table admiring the food. Across from Richie sat Eddie who was then joined by Bill and Ben, but Bev was busy putting out some plates for them.

Mike exhaled. “Sichuan pickled vegetable, Shanghai bok choy with green soybean, liang pi in sesame sauce, cumin hamburger, sliced fish with preserved duck egg soup, song sao fish filet soup, biang biang noodle soup with garlic sauce, Hunan lamb, cumin flavor lamb, Xi’an noodles, and then we have Pepsi to drink.”

Before anybody could start reaching for food, Richie held out a flask that he pulled out from somewhere. “Cheers.”

“Who? Who is this?” Eddie blurted.

“Richie.”

Mike looked at the grandfather clock with Mrs. Kersh. “We can do introductions in a bit. We’re still waiting for two more arrivals.”

“Need I remind you. . .” Mrs. Kersh was about to start up again about how she left the Marsten House before dark but that night she didn’t.

#### III.

It was impossible to tell if more food or more laughter was shared between the group. They sat at the table with Mrs. Kersh glaring at them the whole while. The groundskeeper failed to make a comeback. The two other participants had yet to arrive. And the sun, well, the sun already set. It did with the ominous ring of the grandfather clock. Missed by every member at the table because they laughed too hard at the chatter spread out among them.

Mrs. Kersh pried herself off the wall she leaned into. “Then I will leave!” she announced.

What an odd thing to say. She hadn’t joined the conversation before but started her own as if she were always in the midst of it.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner,” Bev pipped up.

“Yes! Give our thanks to-to. . .” Mike paused and looked for the name of the place but there wasn’t a menu within reach. “Could we get a menu to this place? In case we grow hungry at night.”

“Nobody will deliver food here after dark,” retorted Mrs. Kersh.

“Ok then,” Richie muttered.

Mrs. Kersh marched out of the dining room leaving after dark.

After the front door shut, Mike started the conversation up again. “I think it’s time we started to discuss why I’ve invited you all here. Each and every single one of you has had a past paranormal experience. Some of you continue to live close to the paranormal and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like for you to all share your stories.”

_Unstuck in time._

Stan lost his chopsticks. One unfortunately even rolled to the ground. In his moment of weakness, Richie stole some food from his plate. The cartons were dwindling in content. Stan ignored Richie though, let him be like that. More importantly, he thought about the rocks striking and breaking on the ground. Not in the present but in the past. He had some paranormal experience but what, what, what could it be.

“When I touch an object, I can see its history,” Bev started. “It’s the same whenever I touch a person, as well.”

Richie snorted. “That must make sex awkward.”

Bev’s cheeks burned crimson. “I’d. . .rather not talk about _that_.”

“When I was a kid, I was walking home one time past this old house and a man tried to get my attention. He kept whispering for me and I felt like I couldn’t get away. That I needed to approach him, but his skin was peeling from his face and the back of his hands.” Eddie shrugged. “I think that’s it.”

“Something similar happened when I was younger,” Mike started, “but also very different. I saw an enormous bird when I was younger. The sort that can’t possibly exist.”

“I-I-I think I-I can see ghosts,” whispered Bill. When everybody turned their attention to him. “One ghost. M-My brother. He d-died when I was a kid.”

“Sorry,” Bev whispered to him. 

Nobody else offered their condolences.

“When I was younger, I used to see a ghost, too. I think it was a ghost. He looked like one of those Egyptian mummies,” Ben added his story.

Stan tried to join their stories, but he really couldn’t remember any random happenstances with the supernatural except thanks to becoming momentarily _unstuck_. “After my dad died, there was a storm. I-I was so upset and while the storm wasn’t so bad it started to hail. The next morning we went out to see only our home was struck and not struck by hail but instead of rocks.”

What a lost memory. The neighborhood spoke about it all of the time. While they still lived there and even after they left and they left because of all the neighbors whispering. People were afraid, afraid it’d happen again and would be worse the next time.

The grandfather clock tolled, another hour was upon them and they were still missing two people. The group turned their attention to Richie who took a swig of alcohol from his flask only to choke on it while everybody watched. He put up a hand still coughing a bit.

“Oh. Oh! Sorry! Sorry. . .like I’m incredible but in a normal way.” He winked at the group before taking another swig and digging back into his food.

“There must be something,” insisted Bev.

“What do you mean normal way?” asked Eddie.

“That can’t be right.” Mike looked around as if he were to pull out available notes on all the Richie Tozier details. “I know I did my research right, all of us have had paranormal experiences before in our lives.”

Richie shrugged and Stan studied him. Bev tapped the table with a single chopstick. Most of them were around because of ghosts, ghosts, ghosts, possible ghosts. But not Stan. Not Bev. And Bev could solve the mystery of Richie with a single touch except she didn’t. She let Richie keep on eating and their laughter was coming to an end.

The front door boomed. It opened right up startling all of them. Even though Richie shoveled a bunch of rice into his mouth he said something, “Fuck Groundskeeper Willie’s back.” He was right, too. The groundskeeper soon entered the dining room and plopped down at the table. He glared at all of them and Richie offered up his flask.

“I leave before dark,” added the groundskeeper.

“What the fuck is with all this leaving before dark?” Richie chuckled.

The groundskeeper took the flask. “You know why.”

“No, no we don’t know why,” Stan said while Ben said something so similar at the same time.

Yet Richie got no comment out. He took back his flask while squinting at the guy there.

“Could y-y-you please tell us why?” Bill asked.

The groundskeeper leaned to the side to study the time on the grandfather clock. He sat back up straight in his seat. “Alright, but it’s a long story. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very hungry when I wrote this.


	6. Story #1: 1756

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storytime

#### I.

Charles Belkap Tanner was good at one thing only and that was raising pigs. He lived a long time ago in what might as well be a whole different world. The year was 1756 when white people settled here in what was to become ‘Salem’s Lot. Its nameless town would’ve been lost to time and people if it weren’t for Charles Belkap Tanner and his pig, Jerusalem.

One day Jerusalem lived in his pig pen and then the following day he was gone. No bloody trail was left behind but wooden splinters from a fence.

Charles Belkap Tanner followed hoofprints into the woods, but out there Jerusalem appeared to be gone. He cut his losses. He tried to move on. Then a girl sobbed mentioning a pig faced monster who wanted her dead. She was not alone. For there were others. And once again, Charles Belkap Tanner followed their stories into the woods and there he found Jerusalem out for blood.

How odd, a pig out for blood.

And so he left and posted a sign warning people: **Keep ‘ee out o’ Jerusalem’s wood lot** because otherwise they’d be devoured. Once a creature has a taste for blood, it’s a taste that is hard to forget (even in death). 

From then on out, the settlement became known as Jerusalem’s Lot.

#### II.

“THAT’s IT?!” Richie blurted ruining the tale at hand. All people turned to look at him, but especially Stanley. The _especially Stanley_ offered up by Stan himself because: Wow he both wanted to punch the guy in the face or give him a high five. Though a high five felt so _immature_ , yet didn’t matter. Richie continued, “How does a pig make a place haunted?”

“Because it’s not the only story,” said the groundskeeper who then paused for some time before quickly going, “And you are?”

“Richard. Richie. Dick, but only if you ask nicely.”

Only Eddie laughed at this and Bev snorted, which counted as a positive reaction. Stan rolled his eyes because wow, _woooooooow_.

“There’s more. . .” The groundskeeper continued on because he meant what he meant.


	7. Story #2: The Marsten Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ghost story.

#### I.

Some say the house was born to lose its mind.

But of course, houses are not _born_ and nor do houses have brains to lose.

The ones who said this was because no being can survive reality for long. When you don’t sleep, you die. Further proof it’s important to sleep and dream, which the Marsten House never had a chance to do. And so when Hugh Marsten birthed the house, he imagined all the future happy memories he’d have within its wall.

That never happened though.

Hugh Marsten called for his wife to be brought to the house, but along the way, her carriage overturned taking her life. She was carried the rest of the way to Hugh Marsten’s feet while he waited for her by the front door. Her body, lifeless. The Marsten House never had the chance to sleep before welcoming its new family. He lived there instead of with his children and no happy memories.

The gravity of tragedy kept them close and almost pulled down those walls.

Hugh Marsten eventually died, as everybody does.

#### II.

The daughters were left behind.

The Marsten twins.

Both young enough to make their coming-out debuts. Everybody talked about them. Everybody whispered about them. Everybody couldn’t get enough of them. The twins were mirror images of one another. One wrong move you’d upset the two of them, which was a problem considering the fortune left behind for them.

Heiresses to the Marsten fortune.

The one twin found a man and fell in love. They eloped. Upon their marriage, she could claim the Marsten House as her own. Much to the disappointment of the other sister. But for the honeymoon, the married sister left the country to travel abroad. It was at this time that they said the twin moved in. She changed the locks and barred the windows shut. With the Marsten House being up on the hill, nobody ever went near it.

#### III.

The happy wife returned home with her husband. In their return, she kept her fingers crossed as she prayed over and over again that no accident would occur. They passed the point where her mother died. Nothing happened. When they arrived, staff waited outside. Unable to enter thanks to all the new locks and boarded up windows.

Luckily, a locksmith managed to break into the Marsten House letting them through. She walked all around running her fingers through layers of dust. The two had been gone for a month. So it figured there’d be a lot of dust. She moved through the kitchens finding all the porcelain in place. She checked all the bedrooms where sheets waited on furniture as if they were ghosts.

Only one of the servants recalled seeing movement in the house one day while they were gone.

So the twin checked everything again but nothing was amiss.

That night she slept better than any night while abroad. She sank into the bed with her husband, comfortable. The following night was the same. There were happy nights after, but they didn’t last long. There was no definable reason why though. Just one night she woke up with depression weighing her down. It continued from there.

The twin tried to make it work.

She tried to be happy.

Each night she woke up and she walked all around the Marsten House. There were no children to bring into the home. She passed through rooms full of furniture covered with sheets looking like ghosts. It grew worse by each day. Some night she woke up feeling as if she were drowning.

Then one day she instead woke up to screams, a servant girl was found dead. Stabbed forty times. The same happened the following night. Just a different servant was found dead. Sometimes there would be weeks without death and other nights death came upon them on such swift wings. Yet nobody ever understood how.

It appeared the murderer was in the house but every single night she walked around there was nobody extra living in between their walls.

So she sent the servants away putting an end to it.

#### IV.

Death came again.

About a year separated the married twin sister from the last death. Her and her husband live alone in a big, big, big house full of more tragic memories than happy ones. It caused the wallpaper to peel from the walls. Sometimes she’d arrive in a room to find sheets on the floor and furniture no longer looking like goes.

On the night her husband died, she said she entered a room to find all the sheets gone. None of them on the floor. She said she stood there unable to stop looking at the wall though. Wallpaper was peeling off forming what she at first believed to be words that said:

**Come home**

But what an unusual thing for a home to say to you. She climbed back into her bed unable to fall asleep. The world was too damp with humidity. She sat up seeing crimson smeared across her skin. Blood touched her skin. Blood of her husband. Stabbed forty times.

Alone the next night, she didn’t try and sleep. She wandered her home returning to the room she thought spoke to her. Nothing was amiss. While she stood there, she heard something above. Which was odd because there was no floor above her. At first, she said it was rats in the walls or in the crawl space. Yet she found a way to climb up there finding chicken or duck bones littering the floor. She stepped on literal eggshells as she walked around looking at filthy plates all on the floor. The whole place was a mess and not a mess she’d see for much longer because much to her surprise, her twin came upstairs behind her.

The twin stabbed her forty times before stabbing herself forty times, as well.

#### V.

“SHUT UP!” blurted Richie, which forced the groundskeeper to stop talking all over again. He glared at Richie while the rest groaned. “What? That doesn’t even make sense. One, not funny and more important, two, if they both died then how do we know it happened?”

“The housekeeper found their bodies the following day,” replied the groundskeeper.

“No, this- _this_ is all bullshit. This sounds just like one of those clown doll stories but before clowns were probably invented.”

“I’m pretty sure the word _clown_ dates back to the 1500s,” Stanley said. How he knew this? No idea, he started asking himself over and over again. “Think harlequins, they date back to royal courts.”

“Like the Joker’s girlfriend?” asked Richie, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m pretty sure that is why they called her that.”

“Huh.” Richie shrugged sinking a bit in his seat. “Learn something new every day, but I still call bullshit on that whole story.”

The groundskeeper sighed while he shook his head.

“Are there any more stories we should know about?” Mike asked.

The color in the groundskeeper’s face blanched. “I do. I’m afraid, it’s the worst one, and trust me, it’s true, I saw it before.”

“Right. . .” grumbled Richie getting up to grab another drink. “Anybody thirsty?”

He got a lot of nows leaving him there to drink some more. The expensive alcohol cabinet jiggled as he opened it looking at everything. Rather than just pour a glass, he carried a bottle of whiskey over to the table ready to pour some more to drink. Everybody watched him.

“What?”

“Are you ready?” the groundskeeper retorted.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Actual scary story, go ahead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so slow, I'm hoping to get what I have posted soon. I promise everything will pick up soon and get to the actual mystery and action and ANGST and fluff and more. But first a story very Stephen King influenced to set up this haunted house.
> 
> If you're still here reading, thanks! Sorry again for it being sporadic.


	8. Story #3: Hubert “Hubie” Marsten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third and final story (for now) before some crime starts happening next.

#### I.

So much for leaving before dark because the groundskeeper remained present and it was certainly dark outside. It had Stan wondering if he understood what he meant about leaving before dark. Apparently, they demanded too much attention.

“Hubert ‘Hubie’ Marsten moved into this house after the death of the twins. The house had been empty for sometime before their arrival. Without anybody inside, it collected all sorts of miscreants. Insects, arachnids, rodents. The Marsten House stood above everybody else, looking all broken and fallen like those ruins you see abroad. Hubie took over the house and was a well-known hitman. Who knows how many people he killed. But the gravity within the home dragged all his tragedies back home and within. His wife complained about it until he didn’t want to listen to her anymore so he killed her. Realizing what he did, he chose to take his life. Odd for a hitman to feel such remorse. He hanged himself in one of the rooms upstairs and wasn’t found until a month later. Somebody thought it odd how nobody left or entered. They found those miscreants eating his and his wife’s bodies.”

The groundskeeper paused waiting for Richie to say some shit, but instead, he sat there gradually drinking his whiskey. Stan watched him unsure what he was more curious about. The birds etched into the glass Richie held or when Richie chose to speak out of turn or when he shut up. Richie glanced at him mouthing, _What?_

" _Richie_ ,” mumbled Stan wanting to tell him to shut up. He didn’t though, for better or worse. 

The groundskeeper stood up. “I’m leaving. It’s too late.” He didn’t allow for discussion. He left. He was gone. He left them all behind to live a night in the haunted house but he was out there leaving during haunting hours.

#### II.

“What?” Everybody stared at Richie and he paused in pouring more whiskey.

“That could’ve been important information,” insisted Stan.

“Ghost stories?

“We are here to talk about paranormal activities. You know what paranormal is, right?” Eddie cut in.

“Yeah, it means not normal. Your mom taught me that the other night.”

Mike sighed and stood up attracting a lot of attention. “I. . .need a break but we should finish up and clean up for the night before I continue to fill you all in on how we will calculate any paranormal activity. With that, he too left, but just for a short time.

Good thing.

Mike was levelheaded. Everybody trusted him within the first few moments of meeting him and he thought fast on his feet. All good considering what was about to happen in the following nights. There was nothing safe about the Marsten House.


	9. Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The haunting pries its way into the lives of everybody locked inside the Marsten House.

#### I.

The groundskeeper was dead, but nobody knew it yet.

#### II.

“I was thinking tomorrow we should explore the house,” Mike suggested as they left the table. The groundskeeper long gone (and still dead, not that they knew it). Mike led the way to what appeared to be a parlor or whatever room hosted subtle events. Somebody already lit up the fireplace allowing them to stay warm as a chill ate its way through all four corners of the large room. “How does everybody feel about that?”

Stan, Bill, Ben, Eddie, Richie, Bev, and Eddie C stood there as if Mike needed to say more like _explore_ had no meaning to any of them.

Only a bell chimed and by chimed, it sounded more like a Big Ben sound effect that sent vibrations through the walls and every single person who stood inside. If anybody asked Stan, he would tell them _not_ to answer the door. No good guests came late in the night. But nobody asked Stan for his opinion. Instead, Bill casually stated, _I’ll get it_ , and was off.

“Was he not listening to any of those stories?” Richie grumbled. He toyed with a pack of cigarettes but eyed everybody around them seemingly deciding to not smoke inside. “I’m going to need another drink.” And yet he collapsed into a large seat in the room, it farted with all his weight falling upon it.

He got a laugh out of it but not for long because Bill returned with two more guests. One who looked all exhausted and the other who looked ready to punch somebody in the face. Bev sat down looking over at them, she hung out on the floor somewhat close to Richie putting her hand out and whispering something about a cigarette. To which he sacrificed one to her even though she selected to not smoke indoors. Something about it seemed wrong like the wallpaper would grow angry at them. Retaliate. No reason or explanation to how or why any of them felt that way. The _them_ being Richie and Bev and somehow Stan sensed the tension hanging in between everybody in the air. 

The house sighed causing the fire to sputter.

“Perfect!” Mike continued as if none of this just occurred. “We’re all here. This is Henry Bowers and. . .”

But the woman cut him off, “Betty Ripsom who is _exhausted_ and going to bed.”

Bev scrambled to her feet. “I’ll show you the way. I wouldn’t mind some shut-eye.” She grinned and waved to everybody as Betty.

Ben, Bill, and the two Eddies took to sitting down in the large room as Mike moved forward to shake Henry Bowers hand who sort of grunted. Maybe it was a grunt? Hard to tell. Stan moved off to the side to look around at some of the books that lined shelves inside the room. The first one he touched was as if he reached out to grab a hold of a weird, weird memory.

Whatever Henry Bowers said behind him with the rest became lost to him. There appeared to be no regular order to the books on the shelf. His fingers connected right with _Birds of North America: A Guide to Field Identification_ except there wasn’t something quite right about it. He peeled it off the shelf causing a domino effect of falling books. One plopped off the shelf after another, four of them struck his feet and the fifth landed flat on the shelf, _Modigliani: A Life_. A woman with such a long, long face stared up at him her eyes looked all glazed, pale blue. He fixed only that one, setting it upright so she wouldn’t stare.

“What? Afraid it’s one of the sisters?”

Stan almost leaped straight out of his skin. All startled and such. He held onto the bird book (a memory?) and looked to see Richie there. He fixed the book so the woman would look at them. “Could you not?”

“She’s really not hot, is she?”

“What?” Before Richie could pretend to answer, Stan moved away as he rolled his eyes. He discovered something else to be more startled about. Henry appeared to have sharp words with some of the others only to be shut up by a scream.

A long, shrill scream. It stretched thing before leading to partial silence.

The house sighed, its walls shuddered.

#### III.

When the groundskeeper left, he heard somebody call his name. His real name. Out of nowhere, somebody yelled, “______!” And he turned to see a light up ahead, a light in the ground, and that’s not where lights went. The groundskeeper shook his head, he grumbled knowing, _knowing_ he should’ve left earlier like he said. But whoever wanted his attention called out to him again, “______!”

“Mike?” the groundskeeper shouted back sure that’s who. Who else would it be? The guy with the glasses kept calling him Groundskeeper Willie while nobody else bothered to ask him his name. “I told you. . .” the groundskeeper trailed away, deciding to make a point by getting closer. “Just a second.” 

If only he brought out a light of his own. The groundskeeper arrived at where the house opened its mouth, light spilled upward from underneath. Nobody should be down there. Nobody ever went down there. The groundskeeper thought too late, it was a trick he played right into. But he put a foot down where the steps should’ve been. It was like he was about to descend into a storm cellar, the sort you reverted to in moment’s of danger.

The groundskeeper didn’t even get in a last word or a scream. He fell so fast into the trick. No steps held him up, instead, gravity struck him down into the ground where knives waited, point up, skewering every part of him.

#### IV.

Only Mike, Bill, Ben, Richie, Eddie K, and Stan sprinted up the steps while the house heaved for air. They made it into the hallway with all the rooms stacked up beside each other. Lots of lights were left on, but it wasn’t like they left any of them on. Betty and Bev stood outside one of the rooms and Betty’s face was bright red, she glowed a whole lot brighter than Bev beside her.

“What kind of joke is this?” Betty yelled.

Meanwhile, Bev stood there without any words to share. She gawked at something waiting inside the room. Nobody could see it because nobody present could see through walls. She turned looking at everybody looking paler like _you’ve just a seen a ghost_ than tomato red of fury.

“What’s wrong with you?” Betty continued, she didn’t even know any of them to make such a judgment with such a question.

Stan moved with everybody to get a good look at the inside of the room in question. Pages from the bird book cut into the palm of his hand. Paper wasn’t supposed to cut that way, but it did. It sure did. He gripped it too hard as he leaned into Richie and Eddie glad that he was on the taller end of human height.

Somebody wrote on the walls. It had to be red paint. Right? It had to be red paint. . .not blood or fecal matter or anything disgusting. Stan hopped it was red paint and hoped everybody else hoped it was red paint and not at fault. That’d be all bad.

Red smeared the walls into some crooked letters. **Come home, Bev. Come Home. Come Home. Come Home.**

Only Richie spoke up, “That’s creepy as fuck.” Because it was. And yet Stan found himself also saying some words of his own. He kinda just said them, “Do you ever shut up?” They glanced at each other as if this were some dance they danced before like the vague memory Stan held.


	10. "Knock, Knock." "Who's There?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan can't sleep but so can't Richie, Bev, and Betty.

# I.

The last time Stanley Uris dreamt a dream, his phone rang and Mike Hanlon asked him to come to the Marsten House. There he dreamt again. It was short though. He felt cheated out of dreaming, to be honest. After all the shouting, he collapsed in bed, still fully dressed minus his sneakers. Sleep took over and it took over past.

In his dream, he entered a void, one different than usual. The ground reflected the world above. How he knew? He just knew, which was weird because it was all black. It helped that he saw the ground reflect himself.

In his dream, he entered a void, and there he could float.

# II.

_Gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get home before the mornin’ comes._

His alarm stole any chance of dreaming longer.

Stan struggled to fetch his phone off the nightstand and shut off the alarm with no memory of setting it. He sat there feeling wide awake and ready to pee but hated the idea of it being down the hall. He rubbed his eyes getting rid of whatever sleepiness was left. It was about three in the morning, 3:33 to be precise, which felt like it should mean something when it meant nothing.

Time to go to the bathroom. The house groaned letting a wind run through it, making the place chillier. The wall across from him looked different. He chose this room for its tapestry of black and silver with bird imagery flying across it. Only the tapestry was gone, replaced by something that looked more like nostalgia.

It was a piece by John James Audobon. Something about the way he drew unnerved Stan. The flatness of it all. A hawk was depicted all those years ago by the hands of Audubon, a black hawk swooping down to eat a cowering rabbit.

When Stan got up, he peeled the sheets from the bed and threw them over the Audubon print. All that was left was a shadow of death swooping down to fetch a rabbit. Even with a carpet, the floor felt too cold. It prickled at his skin and he wrapped the comforter around him to move out of the room and down the hallway. Small lights helped guide the way, they were nothing but cheap nightlights to chase the darkness away. 

He found the bathroom door closed and knocked on it. Somebody knocked back. He stepped away feeling like he imagined it. To be sure, he knocked again, and whoever it was knocked back. He did three knocks, they did four knocks. Stan sighed glad it was more the process of waking in bed that made him have to take a piss than actually having to go. His bladder didn’t feel ready to burst at its seams. That’s how some people died.

Stan moved from the bathroom door. Somebody knocked on it again. **Knock. Knock. Knock.** It was probably Richie, pulling his leg. The guy seemed like the class clown sort. Stan made it to the end of the hall to look out the window at the small town the house crouched above. 

‘Salem’s Lot.

The lights in the buildings twinkled as if they were the stars themselves. Meanwhile, the actual stars appeared to be all gone. The moon was too bright for them to be out and about. Stan moved to check on the bathroom when something caught his attention. One of the doors was partially open and he spotted two stars floating inside, which was ridiculous. Of course, it wasn’t stars, but the light was too small to be a flashlight and too high in the air to be a nightlight.

# III.

_It’s back._

Stan whipped around to look behind himself, but he was alone. Nobody was there. Yet he heard somebody speak and heard somebody speak again.

_It’s not back._

Then he heard Richie whisper-shout, “Stanny Boy! Get in here!” 

The star flailed a bit and Stan entered the room realizing the two stars were in fact cigarettes. Richie and Bev sat with their legs crossed in the middle of a room. Betty was present, too. She sat between them as she laid out cards though it wasn’t a card game.

“Join us,” Bev said patting the floor beside her. Even in darkness, she looked as if she were sprung free from a Pre-Raphaelite portrait. Stan joined them, he sat where she suggested while she took a long drag on her cigarette but across from her Richie killed his with his toes. “We’re learning about our futures.”

“Tarot really isn’t about the future,” muttered Betty as she collected the cards. “It’s more of a conversation. . .”

“. . .to mediate whatever argument you have in your mind,” finished Stan remembering some distant dream of his. The last time he dreamt a dream, he dreamt three. And in it, an old infomercial played as he had his cards read at a bowling alley. Betty finished shuffling the cards and handed them to Stan. “What?”

“Ask a question. Shuffle them and then split them into three piles.”

Stan complied. He shuffled but no question came to mind. He split the piles in three letting Betty carry on with the process. Richie sat there looking at him with some sort of smile on his face. _Smirk_ was a better description for his expression. The class clown had to be thinking up some sort of joke. For some reason, Stan wanted to come up with a joke first except his jokes never landed. Sometimes they were a little too dark for the people listening or too dry. He wasn’t the sort to laugh at his own jokes because it’d mess them up. Richie looked prepared to laugh at his own joke without even saying it. Whatever he had cooked up was sure as hell funny to him already.

“What?” asked Stan.

“Nothing.”

“He’s been like that all night,” Bev said while shaking her head and still smoking. Her cigarette looked ready to bite her fingertips. “Did the knocking wake you up, too?”

“Knocking?” Stan looked at the cards while Betty flipped the first over. He heard the bathroom door again. **Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.** He thought it’d been Richie. Would’ve looked up at Richie, gawking at him but was too distracted by the card in front of him. She laid it there and her voice felt lost in a sea of time because he dreamt this dream before but now this was real.

Betty touched the top of the card, which was illustrated with a crow sitting on a sun. Pale galaxies rose above him looking like a crown. “Three of cups, upright.” Betty paused for dramatic effect.

“Oh, oh! I have an idea.” Richie seemed to attempt to break-in.

**Knock. Knock. Knock.**

“What?” Bev jabbed the rest of her cigarette out.

And Betty continued to read Tarot. “For friendship, celebration, collaborations. You have friends and family--although friends can be found family--who support you and mean to lift you up to higher levels of success. This card is here to remind you of those wonderful shared connections. I’d go as far to suggest you should gather your closest friends to remember good times because there is a chance either you’ve taken it for granted or _have forgotten it_.”

Those last three words made Stan feel light-headed. The world skewed around him, he might pass out. He didn’t want to admit out loud that he had no friends. It’d sound so sad in the company he held. Richie played with his phone. Bev leaned forward, her nose came close to touching his phone as she guarded the sight of the cards. Still, Betty went to turn the other card over and Richie found what he wanted to find.

**Knock. Knock.**

Some new age music played with monks chanting reminding him of the brief moment in time Gregorian chanting reached top levels of the music charts. Except he couldn’t tell you what Gregorian chanting was because it felt super foreign to his life. Richie snickered. “Some Pure Moods, Enigma, felt right for some fortune-telling.”

Stan shot his best, _Just stop_ look, as if he could command Richie to tone down his obnoxiousness levels.

“Great song, great for stripping. Trust me, I know.”

“Oh, because you frequent strip clubs?” Bev asked, it sounded as if she were close to laughing at her own joke.

“Yeah, it’s easy to frequent them when you’re the headliner at one.”

“You are _not_ a stripper.”

“Am, too. Wanna see?”

Bev shook her head. "I'd pay money for you to keep your clothes on."

"Ouch, Ringwald, ouch."

“Ok, but it’s still not fortune-telling,” Betty reminded them again as she turned the card over and snapped her attention up. Bev gasped. Richie snickered, unable to stay serious. It was hard to tell if Betty’s cards ruined the moment or Richie’s reaction to them. “Death, reversed.” Betty paused, there was such drama in her silence. Would’ve been worse if Richie weren’t snickering and attempting to sing along with Enigma. Leave it to him to ruin a reading. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Stan gazed at the card finding a whisper, “I. . .know.”

“This card is here for change and transformation, which is never easy.” Betty touched Stan’s knee before adding a quick, “Learn to embrace change.”

Richie picked it up looking at it before grinning at Stan. “Bad luck, man.”

“It’s not. . .it’s not fortune telling,” Stan came close to snapping but instead he relied on some dry wit.

Richie touched his other knee. “Learn to embrace bad luck, Stanny.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Stan.

“Leave him alone,” Bev added. She sighed, leaning back, she leaned into her hands. “Put something else on, Rich, this is annoying.”

“No, I’m setting the mood, a pure mood.”

“You’re something else.”

**Knock. Knock. Knock.**

“WHAT is that sound?!” Stan snapped. He didn’t even mean to say it so loud just the final _knock_ got on his nerves. And he remembered how he had to go. . . “I thought somebody was in the bathroom.”

“I mean, somebody might be in the bathroom, but it’s been going on all night.” Bev sort of shrugged.

This happened all while Betty flipped over the third and final card of an injured crow with a broken wing, it looked over its shoulder in fear. He didn’t even need Betty to explain it all to him. He already knew what it meant. This was from the dream he dreamt, but maybe it would’ve been nice to let her tell. She’d been nice to read Tarot for them and let Bev sleep in the room she claimed after they came across the painted **Come Home, Bev. Come Home. Come Home.** on the wall. Betty arrived late but was the first to leave unless you counted the groundskeeper, who was still dead without anybody knowing it yet.

Betty attempted to explain. _Nine of wands, upright_ for the card in front of Stan. 

She was about to die. 

But of course, nobody knew it yet. How could they? None of them could see the future. Bev touched Betty’s knee. That was a lie. Bev could see the future, she just wasn’t so sure about it yet.

_You are exhausted, at the edge of exhaustion for whatever is happening in life. But please **remember** , you are resilient, persistent, and you have what it takes to make it to that finish line._

Richie hopped up. “Let’s find out. Do a little ghostbusting.”

“I really-I really would like to just go to the. . .bathroom. . .” said Stan and he climbed to his feet. “It’s an old house, right?”

“1756 old,” Richie agreed with him.

Stan squinted at Richie. It was a little darker without them hanging onto their ~~stars~~ cigarettes. “That's not-That's not. . .nevermind.”

**Knock. Knock.**

Richie stretched and yawned. “I’ll go with you. Gonna try and sleep but in case it's a ghost, I’ll be around to protect you.”

“Wow, I feel so. . .safe.” Stan took the lead to make it to the bathroom.

Richie bowed to Bev and Betty in his exit. “Ladies.”

“Don’t come back,” Bev commented, “unless you bring more cigarettes.”

“So demanding.” Richie snorted and left.

# IV.

The walk to the bathroom was pretty short. Somehow the hallway always looked longer than it ever really was. Richie leaned into the wall pulling a plastic bag from his pocket. It appeared to be full of tobacco or nicotine or whatever it was rolled up into cigarettes. Stan wasn’t ever a smoker. He knocked on the door hearing nothing on the other side so he knocked again to be greeted by silence even though he pressed his ear to the door.

**Knock. Knock. Knock.**

Richie and Stan looked the opposite way of the room they just left. It’s door closed and wherever the source of the noise was coming from somewhere else in the house.

“That’s scary,” muttered Richie.

“Yeah.” Stan looked back at him, finding him a little too close. His little baggy on the floor. Maybe it wasn’t even nicotine or whatever went into cigarettes, but weed. Something about the moment made Stan feel so young and immature. He felt his cheeks start to burn. “Have fun ghostbusting on my account.”

Stan opened the door cringing because he really thought he’d find Ben sitting on the toilet trying to read today’s news. But nobody was inside the room. There was a small toilet with one of those shag carpet covers. Stan didn't want to imagine the amount of germs it collected. A shower and its curtain shuddered with splotches of color exploding across it. Stan entered and stood there. He glanced at the sink, it was mint green and looked out of place. He looked over his shoulder at Richie who waited in the doorway.

“What?” blurted Richie.

“Nothing.”

“Ok.” Richie started to close the door and somewhere down the hall, it started again. **Knock. Knock.** “I’m not really into crossing streams.”

Stan blinked at him unable to find the strength to roll his eyes. Richie shut the door letting him go to the bathroom in peace, but he never turned on the light leaving the bathroom pitch black. Wasn’t even a window or nightlight to help out.

# V.

The bathroom light stayed on when Stan opened the door again to find Richie leaning into the wall across from him. He stuck around. Only he wasn’t alone. Beside him sat Eddie K on the floor. Or really, just Eddie. There was something about Eddie Kaspbrak that seemed to rule all Eddie’s even with another one in the house. Then again, there wasn’t the chance to really get to know Eddie C. He was the third to leave (if you counted the already dead groundskeeper). Died soon after Betty Ripsom then it was like neither of them was ever there alive.

“Jeez, it always take you that long?” Richie asked. "Might wanna get that checked out."

“. . .No. . .” Stan’s cheeks returned to burning with embarrassment.

“Riiiiiiiight.” Richie stood up stretching his arms. He cracked his back and fingers.

“That’s dangerous, you know,” Eddie tried to point out.

“This is all dangerous. There’s ghosts knocking on our walls.”

**Knock.**

The three of them looked toward the sound.

“Ghosts aren’t even real,” commented Eddie. He looked all jittery as if he chugged a whole thing of coffee.

Stan squinted at him. “We’re here for a study about the paranormal.”

“Wish the paranormal would let me get some sleep,” grumbled Eddie before he got up shrugging past Stan into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him.

**Knock. Knock.**

“I should. . .I should go. . .” Stan pointed toward his room. 

“Yeah.” Richie moved in that direction. “Across the hall.” He pointed at his door leaning into it. Down the hall, the house continued to be obnoxious. **Knock. Knock. Knock.** “Shit. Gonna need an Ativan or something to get that shit to stop waking me up.”

Stan stared down the hall whispering, “Yeah. . .same. . .” 

But he stood there alone in the hallway half wondering if Richie or Eddie had ever been there. Did Betty and Bev really watch his Tarot cards get read? Stan looked both ways. He really was alone. He turned into the room closing the door behind him. He turned the light on finding the sheet back on his bed. Not even casually on the floor, but back on his bed. The Audubon print continued to grace his wall. No sign of the tapestry left but instead the nostalgic hawk about to gut a cowering rabbit.


	11. Who Can It Be Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike plans the day out for some parapsychology research.

# I.

Mrs. Kersh was already serving coffee by the time Stan found it in himself to move. He could smell breakfast, too, but it was the coffee that got him out of bed. He shrugged down the hallway almost surprised to find more people in the kitchen than he thought. Eddie C and Eddie K sat at the table, both drinking coffee. Ben appeared to be prepping some tea for himself. He let a tea bag bob in his drink. Bill ate a pop tart, and Stan didn’t realize pop tarts still existed. Bev entered the room behind Stan with a huge yawn. Mike was MIA, but so was Bowers, Betty, and Richie.

Stan and Bev stood looking at the scene in the kitchen and Mrs. Kersh handed them both mugs. Stan hesitated to look at the decoration of it. The woman he saw before on the book stared back at him. She had such a long, long face the type like the joke: **A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, Why the long face?** Her eyes were all iris, a pale pale blue iris. No pupil to allow light inside. The other side simply said, _Blue Eyes (Portrait of Madame Jeanne Hébuterne), 1917, Philadelphia Museum of Art_ , but they weren’t anywhere close to that feral city.

Already Bev was getting her mug filled. Hers said _#1 Boss_ with neon green flamingos on it. Both Ben and Bill moved to pour her a cup but Bill won because it was much easier to finish a pop tart then find a spot to put down a tea filled mug. Bev smiled mouthing thanks because a yawn took over.

Mike returned, he’d been there but returned holding onto a giant book and something rolled up. He came up between the Eddies to role out a blueprint of the Marsten House, which appeared to catch Ben’s interest the most. As in his genuine interest because he came right over there with a big _Oh!_

“Today I thought it’d be best to start exploring. . .” started Mike.

“Don’t leave your rooms or this house at night,” interrupted Mrs. Kersh, gathering a lot of attention. It sounded like a threat.

“The fuck is going on here,” grumbled Henry Bowers as he entered the room, he shoulder checked Stan on his way. It looked like an accident but felt on purpose. “Why are you all here?”

“Breakfast,” retorted Eddie, “Ever hear of it?”

Henry Bowers shot him a deadly glare. Mrs. Kersh handed him a mug, it was simply all black. No design or entertainment. Stan moved with him despite his desire to not move close to Bowers. But coffee was more powerful. Bill nor Ben rushed to help him or Bowers out. They were on their own with little coffee left. Bowers almost finished the last of it. Stan had the scratching ends of the pot. At least, Mrs. Kersh started a new one.

“I think it’s best for us to stay together when exploring today,” Mike went on as if no interruption ever happened. “This includes the night. It might be best for us to move together.”

“Because of danger?” asked Eddie.

“No, we are here for a study and if something were to happen, it’s best to have two or more witnesses especially when dealing with parapsychology. I’ll be sure to provide everybody with the necessary materials to record any potential strange happenings. Though please make sure you note what may not seem odd.”

“Like the knocking?” Stan asked.

“Knocking?” Mike looked over his shoulder at him.

“Yeah, from last night. The knocking.”

“Kept me up too long.” Eddie shook his head though Eddie C seemed out of the loop.

“Betty, Rich, and I ended up staying up for a long time because of it,” added Bev as she sat down at the table with the Eddies. She sipped some coffee only to huff out its hotness. She waited a beat before being able to speak up again. “Stan joined us, too. I honestly thought it was Rich or somebody playing a joke.”

“What knocking?” Mike asked first, but almost in unison with Ben, Bill, and Eddie C.

Bev held up her coffee close to drinking it as she eyed them. “You. . .You didn’t hear it?”

They shook their head and she glanced at Bowers who grunted a _no_.

Bev instead looked up at Stan. “We. . .it was all night. We heard it together.”

“Sounds like something to write down,” said Mike. “So for example, if you heard the knocking please describe it in detail with a date and estimated time and if you did _not_ hear it, also note that. And note where you heard it and what room you stayed in. All details are important. Devil's in the details.”

# II.

Betty Ripsom was dead, but nobody knew it yet.

# III.

The groundskeeper was still dead, and only the gobblers of carrion knew.

# IV.

“WOW! What the actual fuck!” Richie broke into all thoughts and conversations as he entered the kitchen. What a similar and so different entrance compared to Bowers. He laughed as he looked at everybody there. Stan wasn't sure if Richie focused more on him or Eddie K. He felt like Richie looked right at him, but he could also be focused on Mike, the leader of their current pack. “Please don’t tell me you’re all morning people.”

“I d-d-do my best work f-from 10 to midnight,” Bill replied as if that helped. There was something less groan-worthy about Bill yet Stan almost groaned at his comment.

“Work?” Richie looked at him as if he never heard the word before in his life.

“N-N-Novelist, I'm a n-n-novelist.”

“Oh shit! Yeah, Bill Denborough!” Richie walked up to the table to look at the blueprint. “Pretty sure I read all your books, don’t know if I liked them though.”

“Must’ve liked them if you read them all,” Eddie grumbled under his breath.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Eddie didn’t look up, but focused on his mug.

Mrs. Kersh carried a mug over to Richie but he refused it. “Hm, no thanks. Coffee and me have a weird relationship. Makes me focus, doesn’t wake me up.”

“Now is a time for focus,” Stan had no idea why he bothered to say that. "Because. . .research, we're. . .we are here for research." Not _to_ research, but they were the research, to an extent. 

_Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research. You will be reporting to me, Professor Mike Hanlon._

Richie snorted. “Ok, ok.” He took the mug from Mrs. Kersh looking at the pot, next bit was almost ready. “Just let me make it Irish.”

“Irish?” Stan almost tilted his head to the side. Whenever he did such a thing, he felt bird-like, which felt out of place inside the Marsten House. His answer was Richie pulling a flask from his back pocket. “Oh wait, nevermind. Got it.”

The mug Mrs. Kersh handed to Richie was pretty plain. It said _Freese’s Department Store_ with weird symbology around it including what appeared to be Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. It really distracted him for a moment as if he fell out of the timeline into another. Probably some past memory. Mrs. Kersh held the coffee pot in front of him forcing him to lower the mug a bit.

“How’d you know I was scared of Paul Bunyan?” Richie sort of laughed.

“Who’s scared of Paul Bunyan?” retorted Eddie.

“Uh, me, obviously. It’s what I just said.”

Mrs. Kersh poured him some coffee. “I don’t know what you mean.” She poured too much, it burned Richie’s hands and startled the mug out of his hand. His fingers were soaked in coffee and now his feet were, too, which was a shame considering how expensive-looking his shoes were. Mrs. Kersh continued to pour some coffee before she blinked three times and stopped. “Sorry about that, I’m not a morning person.” She put the pot down and looked at the mess. “I’ll be right back.” And she walked out of the kitchen.

Richie flicked coffee off his hands by flailing them a bit. Some hot droplets slapped Stan who was too close apparently. Though Stan grabbed a roll of paper towels and handed them to Richie in the meantime who dried his hands so he could easily screw the top of his flask off and take a long swig.

“You ok?” Stan asked, everybody was watching the strangeness that was just Richie and Mrs. Kersh.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Happens a lot. Think it’s my face, always distracts the ladies.”

Stan rolled his eyes. Why’d he even care? He instead moved toward the rest of the group to see what Mike had all set up. Richie joined too after a third swig of whiskey. The blueprint of the Marsten House rested there with really Ben reading it and understanding what it all meant.

“Anyway, as I was saying, we should explore together,” Mike continued.

“Yeah, people who split up always die first,” Richie pointed out.

Mike let this comment roll off. “I was thinking we should start at the top then work our way to the bottom. I was able to dig up some other material, I’d like to touch upon as we enter each room to consider the history of them. The lives of people who lived here in the past.”

“Too bad w-w-walls c-can’t talk,” Bill commented.

Yet the walls did talk. They told Bev **come home** just the night before. It was another conversation Mike let roll away. Instead, he pointed at the turret the house hosted. Looked like that was the beginning point. Made a lot of sense, starting wise. Working their way top to bottom. It wouldn’t be until they reached rock bottom that they’d finally learn they stayed there among the dead. The groundskeeper would be noticed but Betty? Well, Betty was a different story. She’d also be a person who Mike said they should wait for as he leaned back letting Ben study the blueprint even more. Mrs. Kersh never returned to the kitchen. Coffee stained the floor. Others finished their coffee and Richie went to take another swig of his whiskey. For some reason, Stan caught him by the wrist. They both exchanged a look, an undefinable one. Stan was surprised he took the flask from Richie letting a drop hit his tongue. It made his nose wrinkle. Too early for that. Richie made no comment. Just smiled and took his flask back returning it to his back pocket.

Somehow the house would need to tell them, **Betty’s not coming** , because otherwise they'd be stuck in the same spots until death.


	12. Betty Ripsom Loses a Shoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only going to get weirder in the Marsten House as the Losers and violence settles in.

# I.

The Marsten House worked in mysterious ways. It had a bad habit of sighing and a worse habit of never sleeping. It couldn’t speak, but it could communicate. The how was unknown, but it did what it had to do to survive, which was both so human and so animalistic.

Mrs. Kersh finally returned to the kitchen although without anything to clean up the coffee mess. She stood there looking at everybody and made two announcements.

The first:

“Betty is feeling under the weather and is unable to join you and your explorations today. She wanted me to inform you so you could precede without waiting any longer for her.”

The second:

“I will serve lunch at twelve o’clock, and I will set food out for dinner to be prepared by you all because I leave before dark. Understood?”

Everybody but Richie nodded. Maybe it was because Stan heard her say that same thing over and over again. The same applied to the groundskeeper. _I leave before dark_ , but it couldn’t be that bad because he sat around to tell them subpar stories about the past.

“What time is it?” Richie blurted not catching the haunted drift of everybody else.

 _Everybody_ was a bit of a lie because Bowers appeared to be tuning each and every single one of them out. A talent Stan may have to learn on days when people felt grating, for no reason at all. There were simply days when people existed or spoke to him and it was overstimulating allowing his irritability to skyrocket. Usually, he tried for moments of silence in such time. Moments of loneliness full of learning new songs, reading about birds, or long walks to find those birds. Yet even then it didn't always work. Sometimes he'd be out there in the silence feeling the world getting to him. Was it anxiety? Depression? Maybe if he asked somebody it'd help. But he'd be out there in nature listening to the wind whistle and the scritch-scratch of trees. Sometimes branches snapped, crackle, and popped making him feel like some gigantic bird of legend lurked above him waiting, waiting, waiting to dig its talons into his body causing more scars to line his body.

“Almost 10:00,” replied Mrs. Kersh. “I serve breakfast at 9:00.”

“Shit, didn’t realize it was that early.” Richie looked around. Stan, as well. No reason, he just suddenly realized, there wasn’t a single clock in the kitchen. A place where clocks helped. No timer or time on the stove. Not a microwave in sight. “Um, thanks, Mrs. Marsh.”

“ _Kersh_.”

“I’m Mrs. Marsh. . .no wait, that’d be my mom.” Bev looked as if she were about to calculate a mathematical problem. “Just. . .nevermind, actually.” 

Bev stared at the doorway they all entered. It led out to the hallway and upstairs and to the room shelf left just that morning. When she woke up, she found Betty gone. They ended up sharing the bed. She rolled out from under the covers at some point in the night because it grew too hot then it was too cold and she found herself all alone. _Odd. So odd._ So odd that when she arrived downstairs there wasn’t a sign of Betty either. Maybe she went for a walk and yet Bev somehow understood: 

Betty was dead, and nobody really knew it yet.

# II.

Poor, poor Betty Ripsom never stood a chance.

There wasn't even much to be said about her death. Not a lot to say about her life, for that matter of fact.

She arrived late to the Marsten House and the Marsten House hated those who entered during or after sunset. It was an irritable time of day. The house waited there, yawning and begging for sleep. Right when it thought: _This will be it, this will be the time I fall asleep_. But like any other human on this planet, Marsten House never fell asleep when it thought it’d finally get some sleep. That night Betty Ripsom, Henry Bowers, and the groundskeeper all broke off its yawn before catching any chance of shut-eye.

Despite waiting into the dark hours of the morning without a wink of sleep, Betty slept well. She was tucked beneath the blankets, her shield against the world (or so it felt). Though Betty woke up earlier, she didn’t mean to or want to, but she did.

In one of the other rooms, somebody was listening to some song, one she never heard and couldn’t define. It sounded so. . .old and not. Betty laid there catching its springy and charming beat. Something about it tasted of teenagehood and adulthood at the same time yet neither sat well for her. 

_I was six steps in when I fell into you. One last kiss, I love you like a broken pot._

Betty studied the ceiling as her brain hopped around memories to the beat of the song in another room unable to draw up any typical memories. The type the movies and the tv loved to chant about.

She couldn’t recall a prom. Maybe she just didn’t go.

_One last kiss, I love you like a pack of dogs._

No high school or college graduation, which she should have accomplished by now. Right? But Betty sat up looking at her fingers. Trying to count but kept getting stuck on one, one, one. But of course she was older than (one, one, one, one) 

one.

_. . .last kiss, I need you like_

_I need a gaping head wound._

There was no first kiss to even remember.

_One last kiss, I love you like an alcoholic._

There wasn't a single taste of alcohol Betty could recall beyond Jesus' blood. She gave up on trying to count so early in the morning and shrugged her shield off and let her feet touch down on the cold, cold floor. It had no right being that cold. Yet the chill bit straight into her bone marrow as her brain felt broken. Unable to recall her current age. But she did remember a few things. Before leaving the room, Betty put her shoes on regretting the fact she never brought slippers. Seemed wrong to walk through such a pristine house with her shoes on, but it was too cold. No sock could protect her.

_One last kiss, I love you like a negligee._

She was born in a place called-called Derry, Maine. Named after a place in Northern Ireland. Though depending on your persuasion you either said Derry or Londonderry. She lived in a place that tried to celebrate the summer among dying factories. Girls told ghost stories late into the night. The kind with flashlights shining in their face. Something-Something about an Easter Egg explosion or was that-was that something about Derry, Ireland and not Derry, Maine.

No memory.

Betty headed downstairs, catching the end of the song that started on her such an unusual journey. What she needed was coffee to flood her brain with her memories.

_One last kiss, I need you like I need a broken leg._

Betty made her way into the kitchen. There was a series of 9 mugs sitting out on the countertop. She considered taking one but felt bad because there was more than 9 present, right? 10? That was how many people Mike invited and he invited them all due to some weird supernatural phenomena from their past. None that Betty could remember but also Betty couldn’t remember her age. She opened a few cabinets finding nothing and nothing and nothing until she found one last mug in one.

With that she decided that water was good, it’d be good. But there wasn’t even a fridge so she went for tap water. Betty reached for the handle pausing hearing somebody move behind her. She looked. She saw nobody. She continued to stare but gave up. Betty turned on the water hearing a giggle, but it wasn’t ever from somebody behind her. No. Everybody else was fast asleep in their warm beds. One person was maybe awake and listening to music or fell asleep to it to avoid the sounds of the knocking.

Betty turned off the water and the giggling stopped. She turned it back on letting her brain follow the giggles into the drain. She leaned forward holding tighter to the mug. Didn’t the girls with the flashlights talk about other horror stories? Ones about men with hooks for hands who preyed on teens making out. Ones about girls getting strange calls while home alone to learn the call was coming within the house. Ones of girls babysitting and telling the parents they’re scared of the clown doll upstairs and the parents responding, _What clown doll, we don’t have a clown doll_.

The drain giggled at her. Had to be water gargling deep in the belly of Marsten House (but its stomach wasn’t directly underneath her feet. It giggled and she let the water continue to run not realizing she turned it on hot. Steam whipped up and the giggling slowed to a huff of irritated pain.

“Um, hello. . .ghost?” Betty said to the drain. It’s why they were there. “Ghost? So like. . .who are you?” Somebody who probably lived her once upon a time.

At first, she couldn’t make sense of the voices she heard. And it was voice _s_. More than one as if somebody shoved Casper and his brothers down the drain with anybody else who perished between these walls.

“I’m. . .Betty?” She really did say it like a question. Couldn’t remember her past. Couldn’t remember her present. Couldn’t remember her age. What if she remembered her name wrong? Betty wasn’t really a name, just something people sometimes called women.

“Our name is. . .Legion,” the voices mingled. All of them spoke up, but not in unison. They overlapped and clawed at each other sounding like a demonic preschool attempting a choir performance.

Betty nodded at that because ok, ok, not. . .not cool. She glanced around the empty kitchen disappointed loneliness was eating her up. 

“Hi. . .Legion. . .” Betty let the water run as she began to step back, losing her balance. She fell back slamming the back of her head into the table. She laid there too dazed to move even as a shadow fell over her. She tried to count her breaths almost thinking of the song she heard earlier. _One last kiss_ and she couldn’t think of her first kiss.

Whoever was there held their hand out. Betty grabbed their hand. Maybe she hurt her brain too much in the concussion because her hand slipped and slipped as if their hand was soaking wet (moist), not what she wanted to think about. She got a good grip and they helped her out. She blinked and blinked first distracted by some blood on the table corner and her one shoe fell off in her fall. 

She reached for it but blood on her hand stopped her. 

It was soaked. 

Her hand.

Her-Her hand was soaked in blood, which made no sense. 

With her other hand she touched the back of her head letting her one shoe hang out on the ground and her other shoes held onto her foot. Her other hand came back without blood and she looked up making sense of the person in front of her (sort of).

# III.

Mrs. Kersh woke up with a start.

The same with her neighbors. 

All the people of ‘Salem’s Lot had their sleepy brains pried apart. In their dreams, they went about their dream lives until it was as if the gravity was turned off and they floated straight on back to reality.

Mrs. Kersh shrugged it off. She got ready. She left. She went to work before most people could see her attend to the needs of the Marsten House. It was no secret. But people still spat upon her career. She didn’t like the term _career_ , she had no choice in the matter. Besides, there were worse fates life could sink its teeth into when you lived in 'Salem's Lot.

Upon arrival, she looked at her watch before entering the gates making sure it was after 8:08 and no earlier. She entered Marsten House hearing it sigh and speak back to her. The echo of somebody knocking, knocking, knocking. It was almost like a distant echo of those deemed dead and accidentally buried alive. Pounding their fists on their coffins hoping somebody'd hear them. But nobody you want hears you when your six feet under.

She went into the kitchen knowing there were humans to feed now, as well. 

Mrs. Kersh stopped. She stared at a single shoe left in the kitchen and sighed. Looked like somebody was up for breakfast and one of the guests was up, too. There wasn’t going to be much food. She swept the shoe off the floor, did a double-take. The drain giggled and she rolled her eyes not wanting to speak to Legion right then and there. 

First, she needed to hide the evidence of Betty’s death.

# IV.

According to Mike, it was officially time to explore.

Stan thought that sounded too exciting: Explore. Not to mention, there was something very imperial sounding about it. Catholics of the old world loved to _explore_ lands they discovered.

Hopefully, it’d instead be like milling about an open house. At least, he had Richie’s heavy breathing to focus on. Cigarettes did that to a person’s lungs as they marched an uphill battle toward the one turret. A few times he looked back which had Richie going, _What?_

 _Nothing_ , Stan replied each time then he tries not to look at Richie only to keep on glancing at him, but probably for other reasons (to be honest).

_What?_

_Nothing._ Stan had to look away hiding some random smile. _I just hope whatever your paranormal ability it’s more useful than slowing us down._

_Ha, ha._

With Mike in the lead, almost everybody else was at the top of the steps. The _almost_ was because Betty was sick and Bowers muttered some bullshit before leaving to do whatever it was Henry Bowers did with his spare time. Mike looked at a red door. It was between walls that narrowed in, not even a hallway, just the steps ended before at a bright red door. Mike struggled to get it open.

Richie was leaning into a wall somehow bringing Stan out of a dream state he felt lost in. The house was hot. Too warm. The sauna sort where the humidity was too moist it damaged your lungs more than you’d ever know and made your brain feel all weary as if you were drowning.

“When I see a red door, I paint it black,” commented Richie.

Stan shook his head. "Don't. . .Don't paint the door." 

Mike tried to open that door without a lot of luck.

“Ok, but what if we tried looking at. . .something else. . .” suggested Eddie K sounding a little too agitated. 

Bev muttered, “We can’t go in there.”

If Mike weren’t struggling, everybody would look at her. “Right, I’ll ask Mrs. Marsh for the key.”

“ _Kersh_ ,” corrected both Bev and Richie, somehow at the same time.

Bev looked at him.

“What? I remember things. You literally just corrected me. . .like fifteen minutes ago."

Bev said her comment all over again, “We can’t go in there.” She said it with such meaning like somehow she knew, they really couldn’t go in there (because she did know they couldn’t go in there). “Let’s just start somewhere else.”

“Where else?” asked Bill.

Ben was the one with the blueprints looking at them. He kept studying them from the first moment they were rolled out before them. “Are these the most recent ones?”

“I think so, why?” replied Mike.

“No reason, they’re just. . .unique.” Ben paused. “What if we started where you found them?”

“The library?” Mike nodded, already agreeing.

Richie got his snark in. “I heard they have a lot of good stories in there.”

Stan laughed even though he didn’t want to laugh at the joke. Somehow it got this smile from Richie that made him avoid eye contact. Instead, Stan got Richie to move. They were now in the lead. Bad decision, they had no way to go. They needed a navigator and as if Eddie K heard his thoughts and understood where they were headed, he took the lead with Mike close behind.


	13. The Way is Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger lurks all around the losers.

# I.

There was a time in Stanley Uris’ life where he was sure he’d always be obsessed with _Lord of the Rings_. He crouched underneath blankets with a flashlight in hand doing his best to read. It’s probably why he ruined his eyes. Not to the extent of Richie Tozier though. Something about _big glasses_ probably meant _bad vision_. The library and other parts of the Marsten House felt less interesting than a locked door in a tower.

There’d been a sculpture garden, but most of the sculptures were now broken. They’d been crumbling into the ground for some long time. The marble looked closer to ash. Hands and faces crushed into the ground.

Somehow rooms evolved inside looking regular to carnival-like. Rooms opened up ready to gobble them up, but while the house was wide awake. It hung out there perched, ready to attack (without attacking).

Stan lied when he said he had to go to the bathroom. He entered one of those rooms that devoured him whole. Sunk its teeth into him with lots and lots of space. A rickety metal staircase waited in the middle of the room. As soon as Stan touched it, the steps muttered as he looked up. He could make out yet another red door or maybe it was the first.

The locked door that brought on such a delayed memory:

_The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it, until the time comes. The way is shut._

Stan leaned into those steps. They creaked with just the weight change in air around him. Mike couldn’t get it open nor did it appear anybody else could. The further Stan leaned into the stairs he didn’t realize the world morphed around him. The steps creaked and creaked until they couldn’t creak anymore.

Instead, it snapped.

_The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it, until the time comes. The way is shut._

All of the steps groaned in their collapse and it turned out he wasn’t even alone like he thought. Up above, in a world so high, Richie fell and he almost went splat across the ground yet he somehow caught a ledge not falling to the ground with metal.

Except his opponent was gravity, and gravity always won.

# II.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?!” Richie yelled, he dangled there. It was hard to tell what he even had a hold of at the moment. Something. And how he caught it, appeared to be another story. Stan was almost sure he clung to the railing while the railing clung to nothing. He sort of short a look down. “Stanny! THE FUCK?!”

“RICH?!” blurted Stan as if that’d help the situation, it obviously didn’t.

“Get a fucking trampoline or something!” Richie kept a good grip on the bar. His knuckles bright white as he held onto dear life.

Stan was on the move. Would’ve helped if he yelled HELP, but he was scared silent for the brief time being. He made it to the threshold of a gaping and shouted, “MIKE!

But one problem.

_The way is shut._

There were other issues in the Marsten House.

_It was made by those who are dead. . ._

The groundskeeper was dead, and guess who just found out? Mike and more.

# III.

Eddie wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing.

When Bill and Ben found the dead groundskeeper and he saw the skewered remains, he blurted out, _Gnarly_ , or was it when he puked right after the word left his mouth. Either way, it was all pretty gnarly.

It was equally as embarrassing. The lasting strips of vomit in his mouth was all rancid. It was somehow made worse by how it smelled of lemons.

Bill held onto a flashlight he was the only one daring enough to crouch down beside the dead man. He almost cut his leg on one of the knives. Fifty of them are duct-taped to the ground with their pointed ends reaching up for the sky. It was those knives that tore apart the groundskeeper like he was a shish kabob.

The odd, odd thing about it though was the steps that lead straight into the storm-like cellar were fine. Not broken or close to falling apart. There were railings to hold onto on both sides, too. It’d take a lot of talent to trip and fall like that. Somehow it looked more as if somebody dropped him down from high above in the heavens. The knives impaled the man. Didn’t just stab him but broke on through to the other side. Bill bounced on his heels studying the body before he finally looked up.

“We got through,” Bev announced as she approached them. She and Mike took a stance between Ben and Eddie. “They’re sending cops and an ambulance up the hill.” She couldn’t peel her eyes away from the scene below. Before anybody could stop her she started to climb down the steps to join Bill.

Ben whisper shouted after her, “BEV!” He said it as if she were in danger. The sort children found during sleepovers.

Bev titled her head to the side as she stared at the gore in front of her. She knelt there, her knees scorpion the rough floor. The knives couldn’t hurt her if she were careful. They stayed situated beside her as she touched the groundskeeper's forehead and fell back, back in time.

# IV.

In another life, the groundskeeper had a name except it wasn’t a name he could remember. Maybe it was Timothy, it was a normal enough of a name. Or maybe it was something unusual such as Wadsworth. What he remembered best were the days of the week according to the food he ate with his family. Fridays he was in love with tradition. His mother always made currywurst. Outside of this, he didn’t have a lot of memories.

Or he did.

He did. The problem was before the groundskeeper died he knew how to take them and lock them up real tight. _The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it until the time comes. The way is shut._ He fell off the edge of the world the moment he let his guard down.

But there was something false about the groundskeeper that Bev couldn’t pinpoint. Somebody shoved meat into a bag creating him so he could cut grass and answer doors and ask questions like, “You’re probably all wondering why I’ve invited you here tonight.

# V.

Those knives won, but only a few. No worse than papercuts laced across her one cheek and the backs of her shoulders. It happened when she pulled up for some air, out of the groundskeeper’s past. Bill helped her sit up again. Bev stared up at Mike while he watched them. There wasn’t a chance he was going to come any closer.

Yet Bev hoped Mike understood. This was why he invited her there. 

_Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research._

Ever since Bev could remember (which wasn’t a lot of memory), she knew the history of the items she touched. It’s how she knew the final moments of Betty. While she understood what happened, her brain did its best to not understand.

“MIKE!” Stan stood in the doorway of the Marsten House looking at them. “We have-We have a problem.” There were approaching sirens. He looked down the hell seeing ‘Salem’s Lot writhe. Sunlight glinted off moving cars. He turned around to run back to Richie who did his best to hang on to the railing. It wasn't attached to anything.

Richie’s feet dangled, looked as if they struggled the most. He let one hand slip off the railing to swing his fingers at the ground. His brain hurt, he could feel every ounce of it uncoiling. He did his best to picture the steps again, the way they twisted and looked decrypt. He needed to pull it back together thinking _pull_ and _push_. And like Mike said to all of them before: 

_Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research._

Richie’s foot touched one. He dropped a bit, a hiccup. Stan stood there looking up at him but whatever concentration Richie had met its limits. His brain was too loud making it easy to forget what he wanted to do in the first place other than not fall and die.

Stan stood there staring up without the ability to help. At least, he didn’t see Richie die, but he did see Richie fall.


	14. We Are Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another memory.

# I.

But

That’s

Not

How

It

Happened

# II.

At the young age of __ Stanley Uris lived in _____, Maine. There he met his first big, big storm. Storms became worse as he moved further south. 

The storm arrived the day his father died and was buried six feet under. Stan sat right outside the front door watching cars move in their odd 9-5 lullaby. People returned home from a normal day at work. Car doors opened all at once, people climbed out, and then Car doors popped closed. 

They were normal. _Normal_ was such an odd, odd word. It was something Stan was not, but wanted to be normal. Something about it felt safer like his heartrate could slow down for a change. He wouldn't lose sleep as he laid awake worrying he was dying. The sadness he felt at the single thought that nobody cared enough about the pigeons. But then again, nobody cared enough about the danger kids in _____ faced. Stan watched their daily ballet but ended up squeezing his eyes as shut as possible stan leaned forward, he buried his face into his knees but heard some thunder bumbling through the clouds. Stan sat outside at the start of the rain, but it got worse and worse. Some dirt hit him in the eyes pushing him inside. His mother mad about his choice to get soaking wet (people could catch pneumonia that way).

His dad did.

Caught pneumonia.

Died.

Upstairs Stan went to change but he got stuck in his shirt when a loud bang struck across the street, followed by glass shattering. Stan walked to the window because the sky decided to throw ice chunks at him with maybe a tornado brewing nearby. Stan clenched his teeth looking at the world. Somebody came outside to see what happened, his windshield destroyed and a piece of hail struck him, too. He lived to die another day.

A soft bop, bop, bop fell across the roof. Stan looked up at it, shaking his head. The storm was already grating against his shredded nerves. Life hadn’t been right for such a long, long time and this was overstimulating. The kind where he wanted to find silence, lock himself but wouldn’t with such a sound crashing down above him.

“No,” whispered Stan, his voice cracked a bit. 

He collapsed onto the bed listening for more bop, bop, bops, but there weren’t any. There were the sounds of hail striking down. It bent metal around it and crumbled across the ground. Some screams even escaped from the indoors of the regular people in their normal lives. Stan climbed up and looked out. He could spot an audience floating around their windows and open doors. Some had garages giving them safety as the hail struck again and again and again. Each and every single person looked up at the sky, which Stan couldn’t figure out why. Storms happen all the time. He almost went to take a step back when a floorboard creaked behind him. 

“. . .Stanley. . .” his mother said it such a whisper that he couldn’t hear the tone of her voice. 

Was it fury or was it tragedy?

She looked so unhappy while she stood, there trembling, as Stan did sometimes when it was too noisy or he couldn’t catch his breath. His heart pounding too fast the idea of how deep the sea was or what a volcano could do to a person. The worst part of it all was how often people never noticed the inner crises going on in Stan's head.

“. . .Don’t go near the window. Help me board them up.”

“Board them up?” Because questions could be answers especially when you were already moving away from the window.

“. . .The storm. . .it’s going to be a bad one.”

She was right.

The wind pounded and pounded into their house. It felt as if it would break on through the walls and destroy them all on the inside. Both Stan and his mom slept downstairs. He was on the floor while she slept on the couch. And by ‘sleep,’ neither of them could. The storm was to loud with its consistent _boom_ , _boom_ , _boom_.

The next morning Stan was quick to put puzzle pieces together. It wasn’t ever the wind going _boom_ , _boom_ , _boom_ but the series of rocks that hit their home attempting to break their home. He stood outside in the middle of the yard looking at its destruction. Human destruction. Not nature destruction. Their roof appeared to be fine where others were broken, and cars as well. Their first floor was the only one damaged with what looked like his window was broken from where he stood.

Somebody shouted some crude words at Stan. He turned to look, which was a mistake. Some kid from school, not that it mattered. They were all about the same. People’s crudeness, rudeness, and so on. But the kid threw what appeared to be a bag of dog shit at him.

_Oh fuck_ Stan stumbled back and somehow managed to blurt only “No.” Good because he couldn’t have his mom learning about his choice of such words.

The teen’s front tire on his bike froze up as the poop bag arced toward Stan like so many of those rocks. But unlike the rocks, it froze in midair as the teen tumbled over his handlebars. He wasn’t so lucky. It was almost as if Stan’s bad luck rubbed off on him as he fell face into the groundbreaking his nose and two front teeth.

“STANLEY!” his mother shouted from the doorway as he stared at the bag hanging there almost thinking of touching it. When he blinked, it fell, hitting the sidewalk rather than his place. Joke was on the kid and anybody else involved. It was right splat in the middle of all their ways. “What are you-What are you doing?! Get in the house!”

Stan rolled his eyes and moved to follow her orders. “I was going to play with ______ and ____ today.” Like so many of his memories, they’d become twisted and corrupted and fallen. The names of his childhood best friends were long gone from his memory bank. Didn’t seem right.

“ _No_! You’re not, get inside. It’s too much right now.”

Stan sighed, but listened. She had a point. Kids went missing faster in _____ than any other city in the United States. Yet somehow he understood, they were ok now. He looked at the damage again. What he didn’t see in the night was the way his words took command. Like seconds ok, the hail froze above his place almost creating a forcefield leaving all their neighbors around to watch. To them, a new kind of terror was introduced, if they ever knew such a terror roamed the intestines of their town.

As soon as Stan made it to the door, his mother went to rush him inside because people were coming out now to look at the fallen teen from his bike. The house looked darker without any natural lights. Stan went upstairs deciding whether he should call ______ to let him know he wouldn’t make it today. Then again, chances were ______ was spending all his time in the world with _____ and ____ seldom answered the phone after memories. Once he tried to explain it and somehow Stan could remember it.

_____ said it to him almost as if he read it off a teleprompter or from a book. Stan asked why he looked so sad in the rain and the response he got was, “It reminds me of the terror began.” The day his brother was killed, it rained a lot. It rained a lot more than usual. ____ didn’t want to go play, something he complained about day in and day out. Guilt does that to a person. He did help craft a boat for his brother to run along the drains that spilled into the town's intestinal system. The streets were flooding and maybe the boat went really fast. There’s no telling how long he watched it float because soon he was dead.

# III.

Richie fell away from the red door with metal coming down fast around him. They’d clatter and crumble upon hitting the ground. Stan moved feeling stuck in slow motion. The world though stuck to him. It felt as if he were pushing through velvet curtains and again HELP would’ve been a nice thing to yell but he did something nicer, as if he remembered.

Stan said, “No.”

And Richie fell without ever hitting the ground. The metal struck down, denting the floorboards. Nobody had to make it inside. There was a dead man outside. Instead, Stan reached up unsure how to get this done. It felt as if Richie had a gravitational field of his own. His arms were wheeling all around he floated there not falling, his back almost hitting the ground first.

Stan caught one of Richie’s hands and helped pull him down from there. Richie stood there gawking at him. Richie rubbed his eyes and used the bottom of his shirt to clean his glasses while muttering something to himself.

“You have that flask still?” Stan asked.

Richie appeared to have lost his voice.

“I could use it right now. . .”

Behind them, Bev arrived. “Oh, you’re ok?” She paused. “The police are here. They’re outside with everybody else.”

“The police?” Richie raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Bev glanced at Stan who stared at the floorboards. She sighed. “The groundskeeper appears to have been murdered last night.”

“NOT GROUNDSKEEPER WILLIE!” Richie shouted in such a bad impersonation of a bad Scottish accent, in the first place.

“Right.” Bev backed out to join the others.

Richie handed the flask to Stan getting him to look up. “Thanks, man. That’s kind of a rad trick you got there.”

“Same with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just I thought. . .” But Richie was staring at him as if he were insane. At least, he kept his flask out for Stan to take. He took it and took several gulps of whiskey which appeared to pain Richie as he watched. Stan handed it back. “I’m going to help them. . .if they need help.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll come, too.” Richie started to follow. “Does he look all fucking gross dead? Like what did it to him? Squirrels? Heart attack.”

"Knives.”

It stopped Richie. “Knives as in knives plural.”

Stan nodded.

“What the fuck? Man, she even said murder, too. What the fuck. Murdered here?”

Stan nodded.

“Man, fuck us. We kept him here past sunset and he said he was gonna leave before then.”

Stan didn’t nod because it dawned on him. What an unusual idea. The groundskeeper either came super early or never really left the Marsten House.


	15. Dear God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bev learns a lot more about how Betty died.

# I.

Nobody came to claim the groundskeeper.

When Mike asked Mrs. Kersh for his emergency contacts or his closest relatives, she informed him, “He’s always been here,” which wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

Mike tried again, “Ok, but who should I contact?”

Mrs. Kersh carried on toward the kitchen away from Mike with the same response, “He’s always been here.”

Those who worked at the morgue later arrived. Wrapped the groundskeeper up in a body bag and towed him off to wherever the forgotten went. Only Mike took care of this business to the very end. He stood outside watching the vehicle slip back toward the town below. Mrs. Kersh stood beside them shaking her head. 

She was nothing but a broken record, Her tone made her words sound distorted, all somber rather than the earlier matter of fact sounded response. “He’s always been here.”

The way she said it made it sound as if the groundskeeper were nothing but the figment of the Marsten House’s imagination.

# II.

“Hey! Richie yelled. He sat outside using a little stone bench by a baby tree for some back support. He’d been busy rolling a blunt until he spotted Stan. 

_Crap_. Stan did his best “I-Am-Distracted Dance” as he looked at treetops and at his feet and held on tighter to his bird book in an attempt to not make eye contact. He played this game before and failed. 

“Stan! STANNY!” Richie kept waving to get his attention. “Just get over here.”

Stan sighed, blowing his bangs up and out of his face before finally making his way toward Richie. “What?! I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Richie shrugged. “What if I just wanted to enjoy the pleasure of your company?”

“Alright, well, I find that hard to believe.”

“Hear me out though.” Richie leaned back a bit, lighting up. “I’m full of surprises.”

Stan shook his head but continued to stand there. When Richie offered to share, Stan took the blunt and took a hit. He’s been here before, not here-here, but he’s done this and somehow he smoked with. . .

“Do I know you?” Stan asked.

Richie looked taken aback. If anything, his expression translated to, _What the actual fuck?_ “Um, yeah, we met like yesterday.”

“I know that.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I mean, before that. I just. . .I just feel like I know you or something.” 

Even though a bench was right there, Stan chose to sit on the ground in front of Richie. He handed the blunt back letting him smoke instead. Stan leaned into his legs, wrapping his arms around them. He could still faintly taste the day of the storm from his youth when he made all that hail float. The following day he wanted to spend time with friends. Friends, friends who were named ______ and ____. No. Those weren’t their names. He drew a blank over and over and over again. All he could recall is that ____ said, “When the terror began,” a lot referring to his brother's death on yet another rainy day while ______ was the kind of kid you wanted to punch, but also wanted him to like you back even if he was obnoxious with all his little impressions and jokes.

Unstuck  
in  
time.

Richie waved a hand in Stan’s face. “Hey! Ground control to Major Tom!”

“Sorry,” whispered Stan. “Where-Where are you from?” Why would he ask such a question when his answer was: **_____**.

“I don’t know, I grew up in LA though so I guess I’d say LA. Lived there for as long as I can remember, to be honest.”

“LA. . .” 

“Yeah, why? You also from LA? Like do we have some kind of sliding doors origin story?”

Stan shook his head. “No, no. I’ve never even been to LA.” He got up. “Nevermind. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“Oh shit, let me join you.”

Except Stan’s hesitant, he studied Richie while he continued to smoke there. He held onto the bird book a little harder. The one that practically sang to him the night before or two nights before. How long had he even been there at the Marsten House? A sleepless night really did blur the movement of time.

“I mean. . .if you really want, I’m looking for birds.”

Richie wrinkled his nose. “Like to eat them?”

“What? No! Why would you. . .No! Like bird watching, you dingus.”

“Did you just call me a dingus?”

“Well, yeah! I don’t know. I’m gone. Bye.”

Even though Stan wanted to do his best hurried walk away without looking back. Richie caught up with him in no time trying to get a look at the book.

“ _The National Audubon Society Field Guide of North American Birds_. Sounds incredibly boring, kinda like you.”

“What? No. It’s not-It’s not an Audubon book but. . .” Stan stomped to a complete stop to stare at the cover but like the artwork in his room, it shifted into something else altogether. When he’d found the book it said _Birds of North America: A Guide to Field Identification_. It slipped right out of his hand as if he grabbed something hot. Richie went to grab it but Stan kicked it away almost also kicking Richie in the face.

“What the fuck, man? Why’d you do that?”

Stan gawked at Richie.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

What a funny thing to say. 

Already, Richie was moving to pick the book back up again except he took forever. He was crouching there, bouncing on his heels while looking at something else. 

As if it were a good comeback, Stan blurted, “Cliches aren’t funny.”

But Richie was still looking at the something else he discovered.

“What?” Stan moved closer to him noticing a half-buried shoe in a bed of roses. It’d be hard to get it out with all those thorns stabbing the air. Rather than care, Stan plucked the book back off the ground. He stared at its cover and it remained the same as Richie said, _The National Audubon Society Field Guide of North American Birds_.

The only reason Stan returned to the present was Richie muttering to himself a lot of _ouches_ and _fucks_ while he reached through those thorns to grab the shoe out. Bev walked up to them from behind. She tilted her head to the side to take in Richie’s odd, odd struggle.

“What’s he. . .?” Bev started.

“Don’t ask,” replied Stan.

Richie returned triumphant with slightly cut-up hand and a shoe in hand. Just a single shoe. “Who’d go running around with one shoe? Can’t be pleasant. What if you step in dog shit or a wasp?”

“You can’t step in a wasp, but on it,” Stan corrected only to be unsure if what he said made sense.

Bev took the shoe from Richie’s hand. She knew she shouldn’t. Her brain kept telling her not to. _Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t do it, bitch. You know not to do it. Don’t do it._ She did it, she took the shoe to stare at it, but it wasn’t the shoe Bev saw.

# III.

Betty Ripsom had an unhealthy addiction to the song, _Somebody’s Watching Me_ by Rockwell. It was a catchy song flavored with Halloween. There were days she felt as if she were made up, and unreal. What made her human? She had no clue. Then on other days a different sort of paranoia sunk into her soul. One that was a little less existential.

Everywhere Betty walked, she felt as if somebody was watching her. Didn’t matter what she was doing. She’d look up and around hoping to spot them. There were times where she sat in bathroom stalls feeling as if somebody peered through the crack in the door at her. Whenever she’d arrive home, she’d hurry inside, slamming the door shut. She had a recurring day-mare of her closing the door right as somebody powered through the door. 

She’d never get the door closed. It wasn’t as if she imagined regular people colliding into her home. 

No.

No, instead. . .

She’d be there closing the door right as somebody’s weight slammed into the door. She struggled to stay standing and keep shutting it. The inky darkness of night surrounded her, indoors, outdoors, because nobody would fix the porch light. She fought to close the door only to see a knife slice right through the crack. It distracted her every time allowing her attacker to take advantage. They’d kick the door so hard she’d fall over to the ground. The door hit her so hard, it knocked her out of one of her shoes, which was such an odd detail but one always present.

Stuck on the floor, Betty would half-lie there, dazed, but understanding she needed to move. She’d sort of crabwalk away as the door allowed her attacker to enter. It was always the same attacker. One over six feet tall, dressed in all black, he had knife-hands and wore a large smiley face mask. The big yellow sticker kind that was supposed to spark joy, this did not.

When Betty fell in the Marsten House, her shoe popped off and her head spun thanks ot the concussion the table gave her. She never stood a chance. This was reality, this was real life. Somehow in real-life drainage systems could speak and whisper things like _Our name is Legion._ Distracted by the blood on her hand from the head wound she almost failed to notice somebody approaching her. They reached out to help her up and she took their hand allowing them to hoist her up off the ground and she came face to face with her attacker in the big yellow smiley face mask.

# IV.

Screaming, Bev threw the show managing to hit Richie in the face, which partially felt good. Something about him made her want to punch the guy. Yet he ignored the shoe fiasco and was right there with Stan making sure she was ok.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .” whispered Bev. She blinked away Betty’s final memory of the attacker in the big smiley face mask. Him looming there with his knives for hands. She didn’t find how Betty died. She parted with the shoe beforehand. 

Betty was dead, but nobody knew how yet.

Chances were she was skewered by those knife-hands as the groundskeeper was skewered by the makeshift spike pit.

Bev stared at both Stan and Richie. “Betty was murdered.”

“Wait, _that_ was the groundskeeper’s real name?” blurted Richie.

Stan shook his head. “No, _no_ Richie. She’s talking about Betty as in BETTY the woman who was staying with all of us.”

“Oh, yeah, that checks out, makes more sense.”

Still, Bev looked at them. She felt a bit out of breath. The startling image of the attacker in the smiley face mask. The groundskeeper was led to his death by somebody he thought he knew calling for his name. Two people were dead, out of how many? Eleven, if they counted Mrs. Kersh who cared for the Marsten House. Bev whipped around to look up at its turret. 

“Hey, how’d you know about Betty? Like I believe you without evidence, but how?” Richie asked her.

Bev didn’t look at him as she answered, “Everything I touch, I can see its history.”

“Oh, we’ve been over this but not how it plays into your sex life.”

“ _Richie_!” snapped Stan.

“What? It’s true. I’m still curious, by the way.”

“Shut up, Richie!” Stan groaned. 

“It all makes sense. We were invited for our weird paranormal things. You see shit with touch and Stan here can say the word no and does. . .I’m not really sure what it is you do.”

“I’m not sure what it is you do,” retorted Stan.

“Ouch. It was just a comment-question. Like I deserve to know what happened back there.”

“It’s almost dark,” Bev interrupted them. “We should go inside.”

Stan and Richie followed her. Richie kept leaning in a little too close to Stan almost tripping him a few times. “C’mon, tell me your secret. I’ll even make it like a whole, you show me yours, I’ll show you mind situation.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.” 

“You saved my bank account back there. There’s no way I could’ve afforded a hospital visit for several broken limbs. I deserve to know how.”

While Bev continued in the lead, Stan rooted his feet to the ground to stare at Richie. He jabbed a finger in Richie’s shoulder going to say something but didn’t even open his mouth to do so. Silence settled between them. What a luxury. Stan found the right words. “I don’t know, ok. Sometimes I just get mad or scared and I make things float or stop or something. I don’t know and it’s not something I like to do. Now please! Just! Don’t talk about it! It’s weird!”

“Shit! That’s fucking cool.” Richie slapped a hand across his back before guiding Stan back toward the Marsten House. “Besides we’re all invited here because we’re all some weird losers who had some past paranormal incident including Professor Mike in there. He’s gonna wanna hear all about it.”

“Ok.” Stan couldn’t offer any more words.

This made Richie laugh. Right before they made it to the door, Richie stalled. It snapped shut in Bev’s entrance leaving them looking locked out. The door was open, unlike the other door, the red door inside the turret. _The way is shut. . ._

“I’m hungry, can we keep going?” Stan ushered for Richie to move. He didn’t. Could’ve easily stomped away, stormed away, walk away. He could’ve even pranced or skilled away if he wanted to do so. Didn’t though. He stood there staring at Richie and his stupid face and his big glasses, which he was always touching and fixing. “What?”

Richie offered him a dramatic shrug. “Nothing, but I promised to show you mine.”

“Please keep your pants on,” muttered Stan.

“Ew! Stan! What kind of person do you think I am?” Richie flung his one hand at the door and it opened all on its own. “I’m fucking telekinetic, check that shit out right there.” He smirked as he backed away toward the Marsten House. It was a place that looked ready to gobble you up through any door you chose. Yet somehow Richie brightened the place as he backed up. He pointed at little light fixtures outside the place making them float. Stan looked down to hide the fact he was chuckling and went inside after him.


	16. No Vampires Remain in Romania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers are trying to do some research and it's building up to some chill/fun before horrible, horrible, horrible things follow.

# I.

The problem with Richie Tozier. . .

~~(No, that’s not right, it’s not necessarily a problem.)~~

The problem with Richie Tozier is that his brain is **loud**. Too loud in an overstimulating sort of way. Without one thread of thoughts to follow, his brain was scattered and hidden all over the place. If there were multiple problems to solve, he usually shut down. Gotta do the dishes? But there’s also homework. Dad said to mow the lawn, too. Prioritizing anything was near impossible, which was the problem.

~~(Sometimes it wasn’t even possible to watch TV.)~~

There were brief moments when Richie could focus.

~~( **Hyper** focus)~~

It happened sometimes in school or it’d happen sometimes at home. Throughout his life, he always got ok grades but not the best marks in class. Too loud. Too annoying. Unable to stop moving and unable to stop talking because of all the noise, noise, noise bumbling around his brain. But in those silences or when the other words clear to a background white noise fuzziness, he could focus.

~~(Hyper **focus** )~~

The first time it happened, it was during a test. Richie sat there staring at a trashcan, surprised at what his brain could compute. Math was tough. But he managed. He sought out answers to equations as he stared at the trashcan and suddenly feel as if he could control or manipulate the world around him, which almost sucked. Good thing it was a fleeting thought, a fleeting thought about moving, moving the trashcan.

There were plenty of comics that held his attention and he dreamt of reaching out with his brain. It’d work best when he was curled up on the couch and wanted a cheese stick from the other room. ~~Telekinesis~~ would get the job done. 

~~(Push)~~

And that trashcan moved.

He was sure of it.

The trashcan moved.

Back to the test. Except later Richie decided to test it out again, it happened during homework. His brain peeled back at all the noise, noise, noise giving him a chance to really focus. And he did, he stared at his pencil thinking the same as earlier.

~~(Push)~~

It’d be easy to move and let the pencil roll free though. He needed a better test subject. His dad yelled at him about mowing the lawn. And so he went outside to follow through. Before turning it on and that whole business. He stared at the lawnmower thinking. . .

~~(Push)~~

And that was how the lawnmower was hit by a car.

Maybe he thought too hard. Too jittery, the noise was already returning and he was on a precipice. And it was more of a _shove_. He sent that lawnmower flying out and straight into somebody’s station wagon as they tried to drive home. His dad was outside so fast yelling at Richie, rightfully mad about the lawnmower. It was one of the last memories Richie had of living in _____ before moving to LA. He might’ve forgotten the most about _____ but he never once forgot about what he could accomplish in fleeting moments of hyperfocus.

~~(Telekinesis: a psychic ability that allows a person to influence a physical system or object without physical interaction.)~~

# II.

>   
> The sea seemed like such a lonely, lonely place. Waiting next to it couldn’t be easy and yet people lived on such desolate islands attempting to grab fish out of the sea. There once was a family who lived off the coast. They were nestled between rocks until one night a friend snuck inside their crooked house with an ax. He killed one person after another but one person slipped off knowing the rocks better than him. She hid out there, barefoot and frozen until morning when she could get in a boat and reach out for the coast warning the police of what happened.  
> 

Stan sighed, closing the scrapbook he looked through. Somebody pasted stories about the area into it, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. They probably needed something more recent to understand the murders that took place at the hands of somebody in a smiley face mask, if Bev was to be believed, and he believed Bev. He looked up from a shelf after returning the scrapbook to see Richie lounging on a big chair while on his phone.

Mike and Ben were busy looking through all sorts of other papers. It looked as if Ben still focused on the blueprints of the building and Mike moved on to something else. Bev smoked in a corner, she sat in a windowsill letting the cold air inside. It didn’t taste of salt. They weren’t even close enough to the sea to worry about murder on desolate islands. Bill disappeared for a short time but he was returning again and grabbed the same book he was reading, _The Haunted History of Maine_. On a seat by him was Eddie K busy looking through some recent newspapers for information. 

It’d been a while since anybody said anything yet somehow the silence was nice. There was a certain comfort about it. It wasn't as menacing as some corners of Marsten House. Those echoes of silence felt messed up, construed from violence, unavoidable but Stan did his best to avoid them.

“Anything interesting?” Stan asked.

Both Eddie and Bill peered up at him like he messed up, but it was a legitimate question.

“I’m having no luck,” Stan answered his own question first.

For a split second, Stan noticed Bowers and Eddie C were gone. Somehow the thought entered, it pelted his brain and fell away and he had no real interest to grab onto it.

“There some ghost town by Dead River,” Bill said with a little shrug. “In-In-Interesting, but not r-relevant.”

“True.” Stan moved to the next scrapbook and opened it. _Interesting, but not relevant._ Some old polaroids of birds were pasted there. He flipped to the next page finding it empty. Same with the one after that. No trace or understanding as to why there were birds in the first place or who started the scrapbook. No evidence was even really left the house about who was who before their arrival. It felt like white space. Some blank canvas with sketches decorating it to be erased and another attempt again.

“What am I even supposed to be looking for?” Eddie slapped a newspaper down on the floor before moving to the next one. He had everybody’s attention. “I’m not finding anything. Just regular newspaper things in the. . .newspapers.”

“Keep looking,” Mike announced. “See if you find any unusual deaths or murders.”

“Apparently they had a vampire issue here in the 1970s,” Richie said while he was staring at his phone. “Like kids started flying around and knocking on people’s windows and shit then some people tried to burn down the town to kill them and the kid vampires ate a lot of people."

“That’s not real,” Stan blurted. "There's no way that's real." 

Mike added his two cents, "Ghosts are one thing, but vampires?"

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Eddie said putting the newspaper down.

Richie laid there pointing at his screen as if they could see it. None of them could. “It says right here! It also says two immigrants moved into this house and then two brothers went missing and one was found dead and the other one became a vampire!”

“What do the people living here have anything to do with that and being immigrants?” Stan muttered.

Richie did such a dramatic shrug. “I don’t know! Xenophobia? Maybe they're from like Transylvania? Isn't that like the birthplace of vampires? At least, I came up with something.” He looked back at his phone and scrolled through it. “And hey! Look here!” Again he showed the screen as if they could see it. The best part was that Mike, Ben, and Bev all stood behind him and saw more of his hand than a phone screen. “Says a doctor fell on knives!”

“People fall on knives all the time,” Eddie huffed.

“That-That’s n-not true,” retorted Bill.

“Like what do you mean he fell on knives?” Mike piped up.

Richie groaned. “I don’t know. It just says he fell on knives _and_ it was at the Marsten House _and_ there’s little kid vampires flying around everywhere eating other kids.”

Right when Stan opened his mouth to say something or ask a question. He spent too much time rolling his eyes that he missed his chance. The opportunity he had closed so fast as Eddie stepped across the room snatching the phone out of Richie’s hand to look at it.

“Alright, it says. . .” Eddie sighed. “. . .It literally just says, a doctor fell on knives. Wow. . .WOW! I can't-I can't fucking believe it."

“Jeez, you think I could make this shit up?!” Richie took his phone back.

"No! I just thought you weren't telling the whole story." 

Richie leaned his head back as if he were leaving one conversation for the next. He locked eyes with Mike who waited there with such patience. “Looks like we have a vampire problem, Proff.”

“Please just call me Mike."

"Whatever you say, Proff."

" _Mike_."

Stan was pretty sure Richie muttered something along the lines, “Glad it’s not a werewolf.” Richie scrambled to sit up. “Can we _please_ do something interesting?”

“Like what?” Bev asked from the window.

“We could watch a movie?” Ben suggested, it’d been a while since he said anything.

But apparently, neither worked for Richie because he just got up and started to head out of the room. “No! No! I’ll. . .I’ll figure it out! I need a drink!”

For some reason, Stan followed. His feet suggested it. He should probably be looking through more books and information like Mike wanted or journaling, which was something Mike also wanted. They weren’t doing such a good job at taking notes on all the psychic and paranormal stuff. Sort of hard to consider when humans were haunting the place with smiley face masks hiding their face.

# III.

Richie chokes on a swig of whiskey when he spotted Stan standing on the threshold to the room. He stood by the liquor cabinet. “SHIT!”

“I found this in the other room.” Stan lifted up one of those old, clunky stereos with a microphone attached to it. Meant for karaoke. “Could be interesting?”

“Fuck yeah it is.” Richie tucked the whiskey bottle under his arm before he headed straight across the room grabbing the karaoke machine from Stan. There was this odd pause. He took it then started to walk along. “Do you really think there were vampires?”

“I hope not.”

Richie threw a glance back at him, fixed his glasses and all, which had to be a struggle between balancing the two things. “Should get some stakes and garlic, just in case. Hope they grew up. It’d be pretty fucked up to stake some kid.”

And there wasn’t anything Stan knew to say to that.

“What? I mean it. That’d be fucked up.”

“Yeah, fucked up.” Stan nodded. Good point.

“Hope Ringwald is more of a Buffy than a Willow.”

“What?” References Stan couldn’t pick up on. He knew it was for something, but he couldn’t even start pinpointing where other than John Hughes for the first.

Richie shook his head and gave him a look like he was the most pitiful person in the world. “As in _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.”

“Never seen it.” Stan followed Richie back to everybody else.

“Ew. What’s your problem?”

“Look, I had a life doing important things like. . .I’m not sure, but I’ll figure them out.”

“Riiiiiiight.” Before entering the main room where everybody was staying. ~~Everybody except Bowers and Eddie C~~. “I’ll forgive you.”

“Don’t need your forgiveness.”

“Birds.”

Weird. Stan tilted his head to the side a bit then didn’t because he almost felt too bird-like for comfort. “Huh?”

“Birds, that’s what you were doing, right? You were doing birds?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” He pushed Richie forward, sending him back to the rest of them. Outside the room, Stan hesitated. He looked around. Something about the Marsten House felt like white space. There were no real rooms than rooms all at once. Like they were just in the dining room? The kitchen? The room with the alcohol cabinet? And they were heading into the-the-the parlor? They’d need Ben to come up with names for the room. Something about Eddie and Richie coming up with names seemed like a bad idea.

Like how it was a bad idea that none of them were thinking about Bowers and Eddie C.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a bit of a disaster and I'm like stalling! Thanks so much if you're still reading!


	17. I Was Made for Lovin' You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karaoke and Murder

# I.

Stan wasn’t one for karaoke. 

He thought Mike and Ben would be on his non-karaoke side.

And Stan was the reason why karaoke ensued.

All that changed with a rendition of _When Doves Cry_ by Mike and it turned out Ben knew all the words to too many New Kids on the Block. 

Water hit Stan’s face, he leaned into a sink and straightened his back needing to catch his breath away from the scene full of ~~fun~~ singing. He needed the water to help him stay awake. From down the hall, he could hear some singing. It sounded like some Celine Dione song was being butchered by Richie and Bev. Stan picked a towel off the rack to dry his face as soon as he did and it fell away, he turned to find the door wide open to the bathroom.

A child version of himself stood in the doorway. His face was all wrapped up with blood seeping through, wounds on his cheeks but young him looked as if he had a case of the mumps. They locked eyes and the towel fell from his fingers to the floor.

“Do you blame yourself?” Child Stan’s voice sounded distorted. It was both his own and sounded as if it were unwound from a machine.

“What?”

_And I can't remember where or when or how_

Child Stan tilted his head to the side and somehow Stan imagined teeth marks along his cheeks. He turned to look in the mirror, to look real close at his current self because there were faded marks. He’d always had such faded, faded scars, he thought they were the remnants of bad acne.

“You know, it’s common to feel guilt in this kind of situation,” Child Stan continued.

Stan’s fingers continued to touch faded, faded scars. “What? _What_?” Even though he kept his back to the door and Child Stan, he looked up to watch him in the mirror. “What do you mean by situation? What are you talking about?” He needed to not talk to himself or to take this moment and write it all down for Mike so he had only doves to cry about and not a failed parapsychology experiment.

_And I banished every memory you and I had ever made_

“Your accident.”

The two words almost knocked Stan off his feet. He looked down wanting to look anywhere other than his reflection or at Child Stan. Yet he released the sink, didn’t even realize he was holding yet it was soaked in blood. So was the floor and he swiveled around looking at the toilet and the bathtub. Blood, all covered in blood, and before he managed to whirl around attempting to look himself in the eye but instead of Child Stanley Uris, Henry Bowers stood in the doorway, grimacing at him. He took up the whole space and Stan couldn’t remember him being so large, it had to be an illusion.

“Um, sorry,” murmured Stan and he looked right at the ground to hurry past Bowers.

But Bowers stood in the doorway not ready to let him leave. Stan felt stuck and antsy right there. He needed an exit. A real good exit plan. Yet Bowers said nothing, instead, he shouldered past Stan into the bathroom, which in turn, let Stan exit. The door snapped shut. Before Stan managed a look back to see the blood all gone and the bathroom was just fine. He’d never been an imaginative person yet he imagined all of that. He stood there in the hallway, stuck, hearing Richie and Bev still singing, so off key to Celine Dione.

_It was lost long ago_

“Y-Y-You done?” Bill stood outside the room.

_But it's all coming back to me_

“Um, that other guy is in there now.”

“Oh.” Bill went back into the room and Stan followed even though the others would return to trying to get him to sing karaoke again and he wouldn’t, he really wouldn’t sing, no matter how hard they tried to persuade him.

# II.

Richie nailed a landing but missed the last note of his song, but he was never in tune from the start. It was more of a him being untalented sort of situation. He pointed at Stan in his return to the room. “YOU haven’t sang anything yet.”

Stan shrugged. “I don’t sing.”

“What? Lies! How come you don’t sing?”

“I don’t even know what music is,” replied Stan.

“Who doesn’t know what music is?” Eddie interrupted taking a break from nursing a drink. “Everybody knows what music is, there’s no way.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Well, you weren’t really good at it.” Eddie slumped back in his seat with his drink.

Richie studied Stan who tried to avoid such a thing and by _avoid_ , he stood there half looking up and a half looking at the ground. Something felt off. There was himself warning him about an accident and all that blood in the bathroom. Like did he do something? Didn’t seem right. He was alive, right? So how could his ghost haunt a place he’d never been until right then and there, give or take a few days.

“I bet you like The Carpenters,” Richie said while nodding as he continued to study Stan. “You have to be a fan of The Carpenters, Partridge Family, and probably something else like The Cranberries.”

Stan shrugged. “I mean, I guess.” He couldn’t really think of what kind of music he did like. It felt all fuzzy like he couldn’t dig far enough back to remember all the motions, emotions of music passing by him. “I’m. . .going to bed early.”

“Fleetwood Mac and Florence and the Machine?” Richie wouldn’t let it go. “Oh, and that song from that doll show, heard your phone play it.”

“Alright.”

“ABBA,” said Mike. Stan did look over at him with everybody else. “What? A lot of people love ABBA, it’s a good guess.”

Ben, Bev, Eddie, and Bill all nodded in agreement as Richie mumbled, “I do like ABBA.”

Finally, Stan named a band. “I like The Taxpayers.”

“What? Are you some kind of accountant?” Richie burst out laughing. “That’s not a band.”

“It’s a band.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It-It is,” Bill offered some additional evidence.

“Whatever. I’m just choosing a song and you have to sing along.” 

Richie walked off to the side looking at whatever they had to play before he hit a button to start. The karaoke machine wasn’t much of one. Not with all the words and all. It played music and had a microphone. Some odd relic left behind in the old, old Marsten House. A beat started up before some guitars cut in. Stan simply wanted to go no, he looked at the ground because it was too embarrassing. It was one of showmanship, which Richie wasn’t good at yet he tried. He sort of danced, if you could define his movement of dance.

Right as the words started, Richie pointed at Stan. “Tonight, I want to give it all to you, In the darkness, there’s so much I want to do.”

“This is a little inappropriate,” Eddie whispered from his corner.

Ben politely sat there pretending he was on the drums.

Richie ‘danced’ over to Bev who put her hand up between them even though he was there to sing to her. Not Stan, apparently. “And tonight, I want to lay it at your feet, ‘Cause girl I was made for you and girl, you were made for me.”

The catchiness won Stan over. He stood in the same spot but he whispered along with the chorus. “I was made for lovin’ you, baby, You were made for loving me.”

“What was that?” Richie yelled to him coming over with the microphone. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing.” Stan smirked.

“TONIGHT!” Ben sang louder than them and blushed right away, but he kept singing with Richie. And Stan mumbled his words as if he were fumbling for them, not able to really grasp what was being said in the song. “I want to see it in your eyes, Feel the magic, there’s something that drives me wild.”

By the next verse, everybody was singing along and laughing. It was too much. Richie put his arms around Stan trying to get him to mumble words into the microphone but every time he managed to shut up in time then sang as soon as the microphone was at a safe distance from him. By the end of the song, he pushed Richie away from himself.

“We should probably all retire to bed,” Mike announced.

“Why? Maybe some ghosts will join us,” replied Richie.

“The grim grinning ghosts coming out to socialize,” Stan added with a bit nod like it was a pointed fact he knew and not some remnant of Disney that he somehow knew from osmosis. 

Good thing Richie was shutting the equipment down because everybody looked ready to go to bed. Stan watched as Richie did, Bev scooted over to him whispering something to him and he nodded before shooting a look over at Bill and Ben. Whatever their conversation was, it was kept secret between them. Stan backed out of the room, he glanced down the hall to see the bathroom door wide open and the light left on, it spilled out across the hallway.

“Something wrong?” Mike asked startling him.

“No, just. . .” Stan trailed away almost making up some line about _wasting electricity_ , but they were there for a reason. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

Bill, Ben, and Eddie were headed upstairs with Bev and Richie not too far behind them. Mike looked over his shoulder at them. “We’ll catch up soon.” And Mike followed Stan down the hallway. They stopped in front of the clean, clean bathroom. From a distance, there didn’t appear to be a single blood splatter. Upon closer inspection, they might not find one either. “Alright, I know this is a bathroom but explain to me what’s going on here and what’s going on with you here, past or present.”

“So I was here and a kid version of me asked me questions and told me that I had an accident then there was blood everywhere and they disappeared.” The words were so easy to say. Maybe it was because they stood in the midst of a house that breathed late into the night. A place where the building’s insomnia kept them up, as well.

The Marsten House sighed.

Mike looked back into the bathroom. “Were you in an accident?”

“No.”

But Stan heard his own voice from his younger self speak up, _Liar_.

Stan didn’t want to look, but he did to see Child Stan standing a few inches away from the two of them. “He’s back.”

Mike followed his stare. “I don’t see, but you mean your kid self. Who you saw earlier?”

“Yes.”

_You did this, this is all your fault._

“He said it’s my fault.”

“What’s his fault?” Mike attempted to ask.

_This._

“Um, he just says this. Not pointing at anything.”

Child Stan kept his arms planted firmly at his sides while he glared at him. _You should feel guilty._

“He says that I should feel guilty.”

“Why?” Mike turned his attention to Stan.

Yet Stan felt there coming close to being unstuck in time except time was feeling more and more like a black hole. A nothingness tearing him apart because he didn’t know, couldn’t recall. To Child Stan, he whispered, “Go away.” And bam. Just like that. Child Stan crumbled as if he were crafted from sand. But Mike continued to watch him leaving Stan there to say something about the whole guilt thing. “Um, I don’t know, really. Like. . .maybe I couldn’t be somewhere where I needed to be.”

“Sorry,” replied Mike.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know.” He reached into the bathroom about to shut off the light only to pause. 

The shower curtain shuddered. Stan took a step away from it as he stood still. They locked eyes and nodded to each other. Some silent agreement. Together they walked in sync with one another across the smile bathroom with its pale green tiles that were once slick with blood.

Mike and Stan paused before Mike ripped by the curtain finding Eddie C present he was grasping at the air with one hand while his other covered his throat. Blood spurted everywhere. Stan leaped out of the way and Mike dove down to help him out. 

“Call 911!” Mike ordered.

“Right. . .!” 

Eddie C formed silent words on his lips. He had a lot to say and didn’t get a chance to say any of them. He’d been lying there injured, and nobody realized it.

# III.

Stan first grabbed the phone off the hook in the kitchen, but the line was dead. Next, he tried his cell phone because that made more sense. Yet each time he attempted to call 911, it disconnected before it ever really connected. He sprinted upstairs, his scrambling must’ve been loud because it caused Bev, Richie, Ben, and Bill to look out of the rooms at him. Well, technically, Richie sat in the hallway while Bev was busy brushing her face.

Somewhere Eddie K or the only Eddie now called out. “Please let me sleep! I beg you!”

“Call 911!” Stan yelled.

“You call 911!” retorted Richie.

Ben was already trying.

Bill looked at him looking real confused. 

Bev stood there brushing her teeth but she fumbled for her phone unable to get a good hold on it. It plopped right out of her pocket, the screen shattered when it bit into the ground. 

“Didn’t work,” said Ben yet he was dialing again.

Richie raised his chin, looking back to where he stood before pulling out his phone and he did the same. Even from where Stan stood, he could hear the weird ringing sounds that happened before a voice warned you, the number you called is no longer in service.

Bill tried.

Eddie was out there to see the commotion and tried his best to dial 911. And dialing was the easy part, the problem was what happened right after any of them struck the second 1.

All of them were dialing 911 when Mike returned to them while shaking his head, he was covered in blood. Not his. Nobody else knew what was happening. How could they? They didn’t see the body. The hallway was full of loud ringing and a voice practically screaming: _The number you called is no longer in service_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS I apologize. I wanna write cute but like can't.


	18. This Town Becoming Like a Ghost Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill shares a secret but we're left with lots of questions and fewer answers (sorry).

# I.

“NO!” Stan shouted. Why? He wasn’t sure but all of a sudden the big wide world beyond the Marsten House felt like a bad idea and yet there was potentially a murderer inside the Marsten House. 

Nobody said anything while they stared at him. All phones had been put away by that point because it wasn’t like they were working. In the kitchen, they all sat. Stan almost fell from his seat while he stared at everybody there. The _everybody_ being only Mike, Richie, Eddie, Bill, Ben, and Bev. The other Eddie was dead. Apparently, Betty was dead. The Groundskeeper was dead. Bowers was MIA, and maybe he was also dead. Mrs. Kersh wouldn’t be back until morning and they had a few more hours to go until her arrival. That left them there alone and the _everybody_ stared at Stan. 

“Just. . .no. . .we should-we should. . .” _What are you even trying to say?_ Stan tried to speak up but he heard himself talking, and it wasn’t like it was the thoughts bouncing around his brain. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could spot his younger self standing in the doorway, shaking his head. _When you’re a kid, you think that you’ll always be. . .protected, and cared for._ “I’m not leaving. It just. . .It just seems like a bad idea.” Stan looked at Mike, just Mike and not the rest of _everybody_ else. “You said people around here don’t like visitors so they’re not going to want to help a bunch of strangers staying in a strange house with strange murder.”

Mike nodded, “That- _That’s_ actually a good point.”

But Bill stood up. “N-N-No, we have to d-d-do something.”

“I mean, do we?” retorted Richie. “We don’t even know the guy.”

“Richie!” both Bev and Eddie snapped in unison, it was as if they’d always been close friends.

 _None of this makes any sense_ , the kid version of Stan said, and he had a point. Stan did his best to ignore. It’d be weird to make eye contact with what he could only see. _It’s all like a bad dream._

“Some of us should stay,” Bev suggested.

“Good. . .Good idea,” Ben piped up.

“I’m-I’m going.” Bill continued to stand. He glanced at each person there before he ended up looking at Richie the longest. It had him doing a double-take and without inserting another bad joke, he got up shrugging in response. And Eddie stood up, too. “Y-Y-You’re coming?”

“Why not?” Richie shrugged the question off.

“Sure,” muttered Eddie but he looked frazzled as he scanned how the rest of everybody was sitting down. “Um, sure. Going.” He paused. “I’m going.”

“Great, a road trip full of joy and horror.” Richie was already taking the lead, more so two swipe a bottle of whiskey from the alcohol cabinet. He held it up. “To keep us company.”

“That’s. . .not legal,” Stan found himself saying. He went over to Richie taking the bottle from him. “It stays here to keep _us_ company.”

“No fun.”

“I’m just trying to keep you out of prison. Open container and a dead body, not good.”

“Yeah, that’s some bad news bears there.”

Stan stared at him, it was more of a gawk because who said stuff like that? The answer was apparently Richie Tozier, but still. Stan carried the bottle to the table, they were going to need it. Already, Bill, Richie, and Eddie were headed out into the world beyond Marsten House. He watched them go with the whiskey already on the table half remembering what it was like out there. He stared at the empty doorway, they left into another room and headed toward that front door. The three were all gone and no conversation picked up. A half-remembered world couldn’t be a good sign, something was wrong. . .with his memories.

# II.

Bill Denbrough was a liar.

Bill Denbrough could also see ghosts, but he told himself, he could only see a single ghost. There was nothing significant about him because he only ever saw the ghost of his long-dead brother, but that was a lie.

Bill Denbrough could see more than one ghost. In fact, he saw many ghosts. Everywhere he looked, he could see ghosts eeping into their reality until he entered Marsten House. The place looked and felt like a desert at first. It was isolated from the dead for a place that was supposed to be so haunted.

Except then he crossed paths with a ghost, and he had no idea how to admit the truth. It was much easier to lie. He didn’t want to turn around and say, _Stanley Uris is a ghost_. So he lied. Kept that secret to himself like he would take it to his grave.

# III.

Eddie sped up to a stop that had everybody hanging tight to their doors. He parked outside a little building labeled “Police” and “Library,” but maybe that was small towns for you. Bill sat in the passenger seat looking at the building. He was the closest to it and strained his brain for something he could almost remember. Wasn’t he also from a small town? Wait, no. Maybe a small city was a better description for-for-for-for. . .

A knock on the window stirred him. Bill shook his head realizing Richie stood out there and he rolled down the window, which took longer than he could remember. He turned and turned and turned the crank. Richie leaned into the car. “You coming or what?”

“Oh, r-r-right. . .” Without closing the window, Bill popped the door open and climbed out. Up ahead, Eddie already got the door and Richie was following pretty close and now him, too. Though he trailed behind a tiny bit to take in ‘Salem’s Lot.

Though there’s not a lot to see. Regular buildings in a regular looking town, it’d feel regular if people were around. But people weren’t. It was late, but not _that_ late. Still, not a soul was in sight. Not even the moon was out, which made it all feel worse. Just dull street lamps were out with yellow-ish light falling over them. Though a few were fluttering, about to die, and not helping out a lot. 

All the lights in buildings were out in shop fronts and other little houses. It wasn’t the super residential area, but there were houses around still. No lights. None of them. It looked as if life was turned off.

“Billiam!” Richie yelled from the front door.

“C-Coming.” 

And Bill was quick to walk inside. The front area split into two separate halves of the building. Both were as quiet as the other. The library half waited with all its lights off like the rest of ‘Salem’s Lot. A little book slot waited near the front and some books were on a shelf. Some of his books hung out there. It held Bill’s attention for a beat too long because once again Eddie and Richie were calling for him.

When Bill looked, he realized he was alone in the small area, which made little to no sense. Richie and Eddie were inside the police side and really he only saw Richie standing there looking at the ceiling, all the lights were off. The lights were off at the little police precinct, which had to be a bad sign. Bill entered and as he did, the lights came on, thanks to Eddie hitting a switch. He was over behind one of the counters that blocked them from the area where cops probably sat around all day and where they should be sitting around ready to book and process a person breaking the law out in town.

“So we have a problem,” Eddie announced.

“I n-noticed that,” replied Bill.

Richie looked over his shoulder at him and casually commented, “I bet it’s the vampires.”

Except Bill sort of smiled at him. Maybe he had a point, for somebody who saw ghosts all over the place, he saw no present and it sure seemed like they were standing in the midst of a ghost town in search of help.


	19. R.O.U.S(es)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Richie have an odd fight for their lives.

# I.

Bill wondered why he never wrote a detective book. He crouched beside desk after desk studying the contents left behind them in an attempt to evaluate the last time humankind was present. Meanwhile, Eddie kept shouting for help by simply yelling, “Anybody? Hello?” It was the only soundtrack he had as he tried to configure the layers of dust on keyboards or computer screens. All the equipment was left cold. A few of the desks had half-eaten food left behind. An open bag of beef jerky at one and then at another a coffee cup was left behind with hardly an inch of liquid left. Every bit of the building was cool to the touch. There was no sign of life, it was as if he were reaching out and touching the dead yet the dead still left behind so much. The type that would attract ants and rats.

“Nothing,” Eddie announced. Bill looked up from a desk where he found soup cans waiting in a drawer and a post-it note with tomorrow’s date left behind. It listed a series of phone calls that needed to be made. “Looked through. . .” But Eddie trailed off as he looked all around behind Bill. Bill straightened his back not wanting to turn around to find what it was Eddie looked at, but at least, Eddie said it, he said it out loud. “Where’s. . .Where did Richie go?”

“Huh?” Bill turned to find the two of them were alone in the police precinct. They’d arrived with a third. He racked his short-term memory for whatever it was Richie said he was going to do but nothing came to mind. “Um, I don’t know. . .”

“Richie?!” Eddie shouted.

Nothing.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Come on! Not funny! Richie!”

Something crashed. Not inside the half of the building they waited in. Both Bill and Eddie grew tense trying to track whatever it was or wherever it happened. Another crash happened. Somebody like metal striking the ground with several other thump, thump, thumps. The two looked at one another. It was coming from the other side of the doorway and so they approached it together.

“Richie?” Eddie continued to shout.

Bill wanted to tell him to stop. Seemed like something Richie would be the one to do. Tell someone to shut up with a long-winded explanation as to why or he’d insert a bad joke. Bill’s longer legs allowed him to gain some space between him and Eddie. He arrived at the door first and spotted the library door wide open. Richie stood there. It looked as if he’d come from outside, bringing in a chill and cigarette smoke. The library door was shattered, just the bottom part of it as if something small crawled right through it. All that was caught on a jagged pain of glass was some yellow plastic licked off. . .

“Did-Did y-y-you see something?” Bill asked while his brain informed him, _Don’t ask what you don’t want to know_. How many truths could a single person run away from? Richie looked over at him, shrugging as he continued to smoke. “R-Really? N-Nothing?”

“Kid vampires?” Richie said with a shrug. “Telling you, that’s a ‘Salem’s Lot problem. Read all about it.”

“Vampires aren’t real,” retorted Eddie.

“You’re not real!”

Bill tossed this argument to the side and approached the library except Richie touched his elbow. It caused him to stall. He looked over at the guy. “What?”

“We should probably grab some guns first or something. Just in case.”

“Of vampires?” Eddie cut in.

“Maybe! You don’t know, also there’s murder about.”

“Where-Where would we-we g-g-get guns?” Bill asked, he was pretty serious, too. He continued to stall not moving forward into the library. “Y-You have one?”

“No, but I bet they do.” Richie pointed at the police precinct. 

“Oh r-r-right. . .”

Bill instead moved forward. He didn’t see any guns lying around, that’d be stupid and dangerous. Then again, it was dangerous to just. . .this whole town was dangerous. At least, Eddie turned right back around into the police precinct to see and what did Richie do? He continued to stand there finishing his cigarette. Bill though slipped inside the library to see spinning metal racks on the ground with books sprawled across the floor. He walked up to them seeing his books face down while he was on the back, face-up, staring right back at himself. Bill knelt down reaching for one of the books when movement startled him, he paused and peered off to the side to see somebody was hidden between some bookshelves. 

Maybe talking to shadows was a bad idea. The disgruntled noise Richie made supported this idea. He was even already in the library with Bill there saying, “H-H-Hey?” Bill let go of the book and started to stand up. “It-It-It’s ok.”

“ _Billiam_!” snapped Richie going to grab his elbow again but Bill moved forward, just beyond his reach. “Ok, but actually, Bill!”

“We-We w-w-won’t hurt you,” continued Bill.

_It might hurt us!_ Richie’s voice was in his thoughts and it’d be weird if Bill gave himself a chance to think about it. 

Whenever panic happened, it somehow dulled the senses and Richie was full of too many senses, his brain was always too loud and sometimes the noises around him felt too much. Then in moments where he needed to focus, he usually couldn’t unless a clear and present danger was obvious. Then his brain seemed to click off every useless bit allowing him to thrive in a moment. He glanced at the books on the floor and the metal of the bookcase before he looked back at Bill who wanted nothing to do with him, Bill who tried to talk to whatever was crouched between bookshelves. Those shelves weren’t going to be too stable, Richie looked at them, imagining a tremble running through them, he could bring them down, some of them, maybe.

**Your past paranormal incident has led us to believe you could work as a key component for my research.**

Each and every single one of them was some strange and unusual loser.

_Bill. . ._ Richie tried again so focused he didn’t even realize, he wasn’t using his voice anymore to warn the person he was with.

But Bill inched forward, stretching a hand out as if he were trying to coax a dog out of hiding. “H-Hey, w-w-we j-just need some help, t-t-too.”

The problem though was that Richie felt what Bill felt. He could feel a different sort of anxiety pricking inside of him. And Richie saw what he saw, as well. To Richie, whatever was crouched there was too small to be human or spoken, too, yet Bill wanted to believe that a child was hiding there. Despite warnings of vampiric children, he approached. Whatever it was, it was even too small to be a dog, unless it was one of those small mean dogs, no, it was actually bigger than the small mean dogs. Bigger than a cat. It sure was something and whatever it was, he despised it already. Like fuck that creature.

_Billiam. . ._

Eddie was still gone.

Where did Eddie go?

Hopefully, he found an actual weapon. Also, hopefully, or one of them knew how to use an actual weapon.

Bill continued to whisper niceties while his thoughts were wrapped around the idea of a child being there and words to calm himself in moments of stress. Each word grew, permeating all around him. _He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts._

_WILLIAM!_

# II.

In the days before Bill’s brother died, he saw a speech therapist who made him repeat the words:

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

It soon became a mantra. One that helped him, sometimes his anxiety got the best of him. Made him all tongue-tied and panic, it caused him to break up words, repeat them, and stutter.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

Bill paused, close enough to see the kid using bookshelves to hide behind. They were smaller than he remembered. Bill stayed there, crouched, shaking his head. It would be his brother, it would be Georgie hiding there, picking at book spines. He lived and died in the state of Maine and there he was in the state of Maine.

“G-G-Georgie,” whispered Bill. "Hey."

_WILLIAM!_

Georgie shook his head and leaned in closer to the books. “Billy,” he whimpered.

“H-H-Hey, I’m here now. C-C-Come on. C-Come here.”

Still, Georgie whimpered. “No, you lied.”

“What? No. I didn’t. . .I didn’t lie. . .” Something struck Bill’s shoulder, he flinched but didn’t look up, he couldn’t look away from his brother. There he sat in a ghost town without ghosts but here was the one ghost he always saw. His brother, dead and gone. And because of what? He even lied about lying.

“You lied. . .and I died!” Georgie started to stand up. His fingers curled up, his hands hung at his side though he looked ready to throw some punches. “YOU LIED. . .AND I DIED!”

Before Bill could choke out another word, the bookshelf trembled, books trained down on Georgie. He tried to cover his head and looked up. The yellow raincoat he died in slipped off as he shrank and the bookshelf came down on him before Bill could make sense of who’d been there all along. Not even the ghost of his brother. He wasn’t seeing the ghosts of his brother anymore.

_He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, but the ghosts aren’t present._

“What the fuck, man?!” Richie was shouting while he held his hand out. He looked at the other bookshelf, moved his hand as if he were dragging it down, using the aid of gravity to let it crush whatever was already crushed underneath. “What the actual fuck! Come on!”

Richie tugged at Bill about to run but they sure weren’t alone, and it wasn’t because Eddie returned. Richie was frozen in place with Bill turning to spot a lumbering rodent near the doorway. It glared at them. Its eyes and teeth gleaming in what little light they had. It was larger than any rat either had ever seen in real life. It was like a danger, danger size, bigger than a dog, and probably ready to eat human meat. It released one low, long hiss.

“Is-Is th-th-that a-a. . .” Bill started.

“An R.O.U.S?” Richie finished for him. “Yeah.”

“What?” blurted Bill. 

“A Rodent of Unusual Size.”

“Those don’t. . .” _exist_

But the R.O.U.S lunged after them causing both Richie and Bill to scream and make a run for it. The creature wanted blood, their blood. Except the only place to run was further into the library. Not the best escape route. But maybe there was still a chance of survival.

Richie kept cursing and cursing under his breath. Bill pushed him out of the way a bit and pointed at a window. It was a pretty big one. Richie hesitated, his thoughts were all back to being loud again. So much for being ok in an emergency. He stared at it lifting a hand wanting it to crack but instead, the embarrassment of his _Princess Bride_ fears kept on returning. It was like some forgotten fear of his was brought to life. Good thing it wasn't those water dinosaur things, but seeing there was no ocean, it might've been an easier foe to fight even with snapping crocodilian jaws. 

“RICHIE!” Bill shoved him because the R.O.U.S was fast and gaining on them. It leaped across some tables, cutting what little distant they had made. “GO!”

It was getting close and closer and Richie tried his best to run a little faster. He looked at those sharp, sharp teeth waiting to dig into them. The R.O.U.S was still closing in and he took a split second to pause and shoved at the computer area. He tried his best to grip at his thoughts, block out the most of them, and just think, _PUSH_. Those computers flew off and the chairs at their desks also flew forward striking the R.O.U.S. The impact knocked the creature to the floor and Bill already grabbed onto his arm. But as the creature shook its head about to get back into the game, the other one Richie already buried was out. Pages of books caught in its teeth. It ate its way out from under the shelves and no longer looked anything like Georgie on his death day.

“Fuck! Shit!” Richie yelled at the other one while Bill pulled him away. “We’ll never survive!”

Somehow Bill managed to laugh and surprised himself with how fast he spoke even with the anxiety pumping and the anxiety pumping fast. “Nonsense, you’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

It got a snort from Richie who again found himself briefly planting his feet and he glared at the window ahead. Somehow the quote managed to knock some of the panic loose, the panic that distracted him while the rest of it was ice cold, breaking him down yet he could stare at the window and thought, _Push_. Richie struck the air and the window shattered giving them some space to escape.

Both of those rodents of unusual size were back on their feet, tearing forward, knocking into shelves and tables, breaking down the library. A _WHAT THE FUCK_ stopped them for a moment because Eddie returned and Eddie had a gun. He held it shaking with some anxiety ricocheting off his body.

“GET OUTSIDE!” Richie and Bill yelled at him because they sure were.

Eddie attempted to shoot at an R.O.U.S, but missed it by a lot. Good thing he missed Richie and Bill, too. Instead, he hit a light, which came crashing down on one of them. Somehow when the glass shattered it burst into flames killing the one R.O.U.S with paper trapped in his teeth. Served that jerk right for destroying some books. But the other one was there. Its teeth scrapped the back of Richie’s shoe, it caught the heel managing to pull it off but Richie continued to run with Bill right ahead of him.

This time Bill thought fast, he threw his weight into a shelf, knocking it over giving them something to somewhat scramble up to the window. He did it with little problem. His toes clipping the shelves causing pain to spark up but he was already grabbing the window where glass cut him causing some worse pain. Still, he was up at the top and reached down grabbing onto Richie right as the R.O.U.S. leaped at him, its claws tearing up his pants and nicking his heel. Some blood sprouted but not a lot. 

Richie held on tight to Bill's hand letting him do most of the work as he ran up the rest of the shelf to the window. The two of them spilled out onto the pavement. The fall was enough to jolt some stars into their vision. Bill got up first staring at the window before he helped Richie up who was distracted by his heel and also the embarrassing fact that he was always scared of _The Princess Bride_.

“C-C-Come on, I-I think w-we’re safe,” Bill said walking away with Richie about to open his mouth to crack some joke when that R.O.U.S leaped out the window just like them. Bill sprinted. “F-F-Fuck!”

All Richie yelled was, “RUN!” But he didn’t run, seeing that the creature tackled him, digging its teeth into his shoulder. His flesh broke but all he could hope for is his tendons staying in place. It burned, really burned as those rodent teeth dug deeper and deeper into him. The whole time Richie was screaming and flailing to punch the R.O.U.S off him but it kept scratching and biting at him just initiating more and more pain. Bill kept kicking and punching at it in a weak attempt to knock it off. Eddie came charging from around the corner, the gun still in hand. He pointed it at the creature about to pull the trigger.

Except even with death already trying to eat him, Richie spotted Eddie managing to yell a “NO!” at him seeing how well the last shot went.

“STAY STILL!”

“I CAN’T!” Richie continued at failing at his fight against the R.O.U.S.

Bill dove out of the way because Eddie wasn’t waiting any longer. He pulled the trigger, the recoil of the weapon caused it to spring back, hitting his face. He fell flat on his back not seeing what happened. Good thing Bill moved. Blood rushed from the R.O.U.S and Richie was gagging. Bill moved it off letting Richie free who only crawled away from the body to puke away from them.

Lying on the ground, Eddie released the gun. He looked at his wrist. It hurt. Hurt a lot. “I think I sprained my wrist,” he announced and sat up to find Bill touching the R.O.U.S with his foot and Richie puking and coated in blood. “We might need a hospital. . .”

Richie gradually stood up. He used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. “How? What am I supposed to do? Be like I might have Rat AIDs, help.”

“Rat. . .AIDs. . .what? No, you probably have fucking rabies!” retorted Eddie. 

Richie snapped his attention to Eddie and Bill. “I’ve never had my rabies shots!"

“I-I-I think you're fine,” Bill said. "Y-You're fine."

“Nobody is fine with rabies! I've read and seen _Old Yeller_! It's fucked up!"

But Bill continues on whatever thoughts are already on his mind. “We-We-We should g-grab some supplies and head back to the Marsten House.”

“Hospital,” whispered Eddie.

Richie sighed. “Shit Eds, we’re the hospital. He means first aid.”

“I-I-I got that, b-but still.”

Bill headed back toward the police precinct, he picked up the gun from Eddie on his way. “Y-Y-You think they h-h-have people w-w-working in the hospital?

Eddie shook his head.

Already Richie was following him, he was sort of limping. His legs were uninjured, just his shoulder took the brunt of the damage, but it hurt with each move he made. Richie paused by Eddie. “If I get rat rabies, I’m biting you first.”

And Eddie shouted after him as he moved on, “It’s just normal rabies! There’s no. . .” He had to chase after them. “It’s not like there’s rat rabies and cat rabies, it’s just rabies!” To be honest, it was better when Richie was muttering stuff about vampire kids. They were safer then, but were they really?

# III.

Driving back toward the Marsten House felt like one of those hallway dreams. No matter how far you moved, it seemed to move. Moved out of touch, moved further back. But Bill kept on driving. Richie sat in the passenger seat dressed in wounds and some clothes he stole from some cop. Somebody left a hoodie behind so he swiped that even though it didn’t look too great on him. It was a tad bit too tight, not a problem usually, but it hurt his rat wounds, pressing into the bandages. The sweatshirt was light blue and said “I Need Some Space” then “NASA.” 

In the back seat, Eddie camped out with an ice pack on his wrist. He held it there, checking his skin, making sure it wasn’t too red. There was no music playing and none of them were speaking to each other. At least, they weren’t until they reached the Marsten House’s long driveway. It continued the illusion that they’d never make it there. The semi-home in this peculiar town.

Bill parked at the end of the driveway and sat there.

Richie complained right away, “Come on, I don’t wanna walk.”

“We n-n-n-ned to talk about something.”

_He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts._

Right away, Richie asked, “Your dead brother?”

Bill scowled.

“What? You were talking to a giant rat back there thinking it was him.”

“N-N-No. B-B-But I can see ghosts." 

Richie shrugged. "He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.”

“Wh-Wh-What did you just say?! Who told you that?!" 

Good thing Eddie cut in because this conversation was not happening. “Just stop! STOP! What? What are we going to talk about, Bill? Ghosts. Ok! Ghosts now. What ghosts?”

“The Marsten House. . .”

“Is haunted, we know.” Back to Richie's interruptions. “It’s why we were invited! To fuck around and find out if there's ghosts."

“Shut up, Richie!” snapped Eddie.

The way Bill looked at both of them helped silencing them. There was a certain seriousness in this conversation, the sort that could only provoke tragedy. “Yes, there _are_ ghosts in the Marsten House, but not all of us. . .n-n-n-not all of us-us a-are a-alive.”

Neither Richie nor Eddie spoke, ready for him to go on.

“Stanley Uris is a ghost.”

Richie popped the door open. “Shut up, no. I would no.” And Richie was climbing out despite his earlier protest to driving all the way up there. “What? What even is this confession time? It’s weird as fuck. I’m tired and going to bed.”

“No, come on, Richie, don’t walk. It’s dangerous out there,” protested Eddie. He rolled down his window when Richie popped the door shut and looked out it. “Come back!”

And Richie did. He looked through the window at Bill. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing at here, but it’s weird and Stan, Stan isn’t a ghost.”

“Why-Why are y-y-you s-so offended?” Bill squinted at Richie. All he said was a truth and it was as if Bill said he killed Richie’s dog or something. “It-It-It’s important w-w-we’re on the s-same page. We h-h-have to tell M-Mike what h-happened and I’m going to mention S-Stan.”

“This is so random, no. Stan’s not. . .Stan’s not a ghost. He can't be a ghost!” Richie opened the car door and climbed into the back, which forced Eddie to move out of the way. “Yeah, I’m not walking. Fucking mosquitos are already eating me. Vampire insects.”

“C-C-Can we please h-have a quick talk?”

“I might be with Richie on this, Bill, this is random. Why are you saying this _now_ and not earlier?

Bill sighed. “W-W-We. . .because we j-just went through s-s-some trauma and I think there’s more. W-We should be ready for more.”

“Stan’s not a ghost,” Richie kept on repeating. "Not a ghost, he _can't_ be a ghost! Just. . .Just trust me on this."

“F-F-Fine.” Bill returned to driving up the driveway letting the conversation crash out of favor. Besides. Richie's reaction was too odd and he knew his thoughts. There was no telling who could be trusted and who couldn’t. Then again, Richie was the one in the car with rodent wounds. Richie was back to staying quiet and looking out the window, he dug his fingers into his knees. Maybe Bill needed to talk to Mike about the R.O.U.S, Richie, and Stan.

Up ahead, the Marsten House waited for them. Its front light stayed on letting them know it was ok to return. The words of such an action seemed clear. _Come home, come home, come home_. Bill parked the car and Richie burst out first, he marched inside. This left Bill and Eddie together. There was no conversation to be had though. It’d be hard to get words in over how loud the Marsten House continued to shout, _Come home, come home, come home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this because I had fun trying to write a mini homage to one of my favorite scenes in IT (book) with some 80s references.


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